Resurrection: Still Not in Denial
by MamaLaz
Summary: When the one’s we care for die, there is nothing we can do but try and get over it – but a trivial thing like death won’t stop Draco Malfoy getting back what belongs to him. The second book in the Denial Series. NEW CHAPTER UPLOADED FINALLY!
1. Default Chapter

**Author:** _MamaLaz_

**Story: **_Resurrection** –** Still In Denial _

**Sequel of:** _I'm Not in Denial_

**Rating:**_ R_

**Summary:** _When the one's we care for die, there is nothing we can do but try and get over it – but a trivial thing like death won't stop Draco Malfoy getting back what belongs to him. The second book in the Denial Series._****

**Disclaimer:** _The characters of this story do not belong to me, unfortunately. They are all the creation of the wonderful J.K. Rowling. I'm only playing with them and will eventually return them, relatively unscathed._

**Author Notes:** _Well, I'm back. Thanks all for the tons of emails I received, demanding the sequel to IniD after I ended it so atrociously. I hope you guys like this. Who knows when I'll have the first chapter up but I thought I should just post this up instead of just sitting on it. Thanks. XxxX_

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**Prologue******

It was during the compulsory, and usually spectacular feast, back from the Christmas holidays at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when Headmaster Albus Dumbledore made his announcement. The wizened Professor, with an expression of gravity on his face, had got slowly, laboriously, to his feet and raised a wrinkled hand for silence. The buzzing inquiries of whether a fellow schoolmate had had a good Christmas and received a fair amount of presents slowly dissipated and the Great Hall had quietened. The occasional hungry student clattered their cutlery impatiently for the appearance of the always-excellent cuisine.

The silver-haired professor had evenly wished they had all had a good holiday, a speech all students, save first years, had heard before. Yet not even a seventh year could remember his doing so without his comforting, welcoming beam. Or with his expression set so sombre in mood. A look that, if one was observant, seemed to be shared amongst every teacher seated at the head table. 

The pupils had looked at each other in questioning, shrugging, worrying and raising the occasional eyebrow. No one seemed to speak, however. They merely watched his every move with shrewd, curious eyes.

Dumbledore had taken off his half-moon spectacles and held them in his hands, looking around at them all with his intense electric gaze. A serious gaze that refused to include the tiniest slip of a smile. 

Something was definitely wrong.

The sound, similar to a communal intake of breath being held, pulsated. Ears pricked and bottom lips were worried between fidgeting sets of teeth. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. 

And then he told them. The entire school was enlightened that Harry James Potter and Ronald Weasley, both fifth years in Gryffindor House, were dead and had been murdered by Lord Voldemort.

Gasps and screams sounded with his words. Girls immediately clapped their hands over their mouths, some with tears springing to their eyes. Boys' eyes widened, too, mouthing wordlessly at each other. Not one of them could honestly believe it. 

Had the Boy Who Lived finally stopped doing so, going against his very name? No. It just couldn't be true. But it was. And Albus Dumbledore himself was informing them of it. 

Most heads turned around, eyes looking wildly at the Gryffindor table in disbelief and, in particular, at one Hermione Granger, who was sobbing inconsolably into her hands as a white-faced and tearful Neville Longbottom clumsily tried to comfort her. Further down the table, Ginny Weasley had her face buried into her brother George's chest, her entire body shaking and raking with sobs as her fingertips latched onto him, the woollen G on his Weasley jumper distorting under her grasp. Beside them, Fred Weasley had his eyes shut tightly as a teary Angelina Johnson patted his arm with her hand and whispered shaky words of comfort into his ear. 

The Gryffindors, used to being centre of attention for far more cheerful situations, sat at the table quietly. Some were staring into their empty dishes in discomfiture and looking at each other with frightened eyes, like the first years. Many were crying softly and clutching each other in sadness, as Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were doing a few seats away. And others, like best friends Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, were staring with hollow, dead-like eyes into space. Even some Slytherins, including Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, were shaking slightly, looking at one another with lost expressions, as though they weren't sure how to react. 

Every student who heard the news and Dumbledore's words of caution afterwards were strangely affected, many not even touching the food when it finally arrived.

But the ears of occupants of the Great Hall were not the only ones that heeded the Headmaster's words. For, sitting in a dilapidated house through a tunnel hidden by a bough-swinging tree and with his blank grey eyes glaring into his Observer Screen, a relatively calm-looking Draco Malfoy caught every word. Only an astute onlooker could perceive how his hands were fisted in his lap, the sheet of paper twisted tightly between them cutting into his palms and causing an angry, bloody gash against his pallid skin. If one looked particularly closely, one could distinguish his jaw clenched tightly and his chest rising with unsteady breaths; face paler than even dignity would have usually allowed. 

This news was not new to him. Oh no. Dumbledore had already explained what had happened in the battle to the Malfoy. How he and Snape were too late. How they would never be able to forgive themselves and would regret their delay forever. Disgusting and sappy words, really. They did nothing to make him feel better. As the ones he was listening to now didn't either. 

But this was no way the end. Malfoys were denied nothing. They were ruthless and determined and always managed to get whatever they wanted. He looked back down at the piece of parchment he was twisting mercilessly between his hands, loosening his grip, opening it out and ironing out the creases with the pad of his thumb…

_… it's gonna sound nutty but I just wanted to check if you were, I dunno… Ok, I guess. I was also wondering if maybe we could, kinda well finish what we started last night…? I'd like… I mean, we don't have to… Just Owl me back if you can't. Yeah._

_Ron_

No. Nothing ever got in Draco Malfoy's way. And that included death. 

After all, this was only the beginning. And a living Ron Weasley was _definitely_ going to be in it.


	2. Chapter 1 The Invitation

_A/N: Hey everyone! :D  Glad you liked the prologue, I was very nervous about posting it! So, ok, finally I've finished and am vaguely happy with the first official chapter. It's short compared to my old ones but… bah. :)_

_Oh, and the next chapter has Hermione and Draco finally talking to each other since the incident. Hope you enjoy! Oh, 'Never Trust a Rabbit' is from the book, of the same title, by Jeremy Dyson. _

_Dedications go to who they always do (**Maria, Jaime, Maud, Manu**, the illegally talented **Marta**) although I must give special thanks to **Dee **and **Soph** for trying to get me to write while they visited… although they failed miserably! Muahaha! Thank you everyone again who reads this and reviews… I love you all_

_Also, have to say a GIANT dedication to my muse, who likes 'Muse', Claire-y, who always makes me write and sends me home to do some work. Am dedicating the sequel to her, especially. And yes, darling, Draco really belongs to you… and only you. :D_****

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**Chapter One - _Hermione Granger_ **

"… locks herself in her room…"

"… stopped eating…"

"… doesn't do anything but study…"

"…looks like a zombie…"

"…think she's lost it…?"

The curious whispers followed Hermione Granger for the last few days. Everywhere she went, be it in lessons or going to the library, she could hear the soft voices in the background, part of the very air she was breathing. Plunging herself deeply into her schoolwork may have exhausted her mind and distracted her enough to try and forget what had happened but deciphering rune scrolls and transfiguring everything she could find didn't render her deaf. People would hiss through cupped hands, darting nervous eyes at her or refusing to look in her direction altogether. As though just a look would cause instant blindness or that maybe they might catch what she had been inflicted with - absolute and total misery. A dulled, hollow sort of pain that she never even knew could exist. A constant ache behind her ribs. A pain no book she'd ever read or studied had ever mentioned or could describe. And she had read the entire library five times over.

But when people _were_ looking at her… 

At present, she wasn't sure if she could bear those looks. So, here she was, locked away from them all, curled up and sobbing on her bed; all the effort of blocking out the hurt from the last few days now seeming utterly useless.

All those mumbled apologies and repentant expressions from fellow students over her loss… Horrified, upset and outraged words that such a thing could happen but relief perceived deep in their eyes… relief that it had not directly affected them. Relief that nightmares would not plague them or depression begin to sink in. Relief that they had not lost two of the most important people in their lives.

Because she had.

There was a sudden knock on the dormitory door, followed by frantic whispers and shushing noises from behind the wood. Hermione turned to her side, burying her wet and red face into her already soaking pillow as she hugged a wooden picture frame tightly to her chest. Crookshanks nuzzled against her shin as he purred and meowed sadly at her. 

She didn't want to see anyone, and judging by the nervous voices outside, Parvati and Lavender were apprehensively waiting for her permission to enter. And she _definitely_ didn't want to see them. 

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. Hermione squeezed shut her eyes, clenching her jaw tightly, the top of the wooden frame pressing painfully into her collarbone. Two girls who probably never took the time to know either Harry or Ron. Parvati, who was cold to Harry since the Yule Ball and Lavender, who tutted and scowled at both of them every other Divination lesson. And Hermione knew she shouldn't have thought like that. It was not as though they did anything wrong. It wasn't their fault that they were small-minded and foolish. It wasn't their fault they missed out on being good friends with two of the best people Hermione had known. She should have pitied them, really. She should have felt sorry for them for missing out on something special. But all she could do, at that present time, was feel sorry for herself. 

Lifting up the picture she'd pressed against her so she could look at it properly, she stared despondently at the three figures smiling at her. Harry was grinning from ear to ear, his elbow casually leaning on Ron's shoulder. His messy black hair whipped against his glasses as he peeked over at his two best friends with a cheeky glint in his eyes. Ron, who was standing in the middle, was looking very grumpy indeed, rubbing his nose huffily. Hermione smiled lightly, sniffling as she traced the picture with her fingertips. It had been taken just after a Quidditch game at The Burrow and Ron was still nursing the bludger to his face that his brother Fred had aimed quite artfully in his direction. The Hermione in the picture was holding a grumpy looking Crookshanks in her arms and giggling at the taller boy's expression as his grumble slowly melted into smile. That was a good summer.

There was another soft rap on the door.

"Er… Hermione…? Are… are you there?"

She didn't answer. She opened her mouth but slowly shut it closed again. She wanted to yell that she was fine and just a little sickly with flu… but she honestly didn't think she could without her voice breaking. She didn't think she could, period. Lifting up her face to look back at the door briefly, she soon turned her attentions back to the moving image in her hands. Fred and George had now joined the scene and seemed to be trying to tackle their younger brother to the ground. Ron was shrieking fumingly, especially since Harry had somehow been pulled into the fray… She bit her lip to suppress a weak smile.

"Hermione? Please… let us in… We're all really worried about you…"

It was Parvati again. A few more voices buzzed quietly behind the door, including Dean's uncomfortable inquiries and Neville's squeaks of concern. She exhaled deeply through her nose, rolling onto her back to stare up at the canopy of her bed. 

She'd have to face them all eventually. After all, everyone had been so shocked and worried when she had run out of the Great Hall at breakfast, tears streaming down her face. Everyone watching Hermione 'Bookworm' Granger finally crack after three days of revising non-stop, not sleeping at night and snapping at anyone who asked how she was.

It was so ridiculous. After being so strong and bullying herself not to show any form of weakness in front of anyone, she had completely slipped up when she had turned, out of habit, to Harry and Ron's empty seats to say good morning. And then the tears were dripping off her chin before she realised she was crying.

The doorknob rattled.

"She's locked the door," a muffled voice, probably Parvati, informed the others. 

A slightly annoyed sigh sounded. Definitely Lavender. She didn't sound particularly happy as she began to mutter under her breath, not really bothering to keep her voice down. 

"I mean, _really_, I don't know why she's being so… ow! Hey…!"

A scuffle seemed to be ensuing from beyond Hermione's sight and she turned her head, mildly interested if Lavender had been knocked unconscious. However, instead of the thump of a body collapsing to the ground in a heap, a few loud slaps of the hand hit the door.

"Hermione…? Please open up, will ya? Just let us see ya for a sec just to make sure you're alright, ok?"

Hermione blinked, lifting her head slightly. Seamus? Seamus 'class clown' Finnigan? The boy who couldn't ever be serious? Who probably had never spoken to her properly before or bothered to once in his life? Why on earth was he…? And that was when it hit her. 

Everyone, _absolutely everyone_, was checking up on her. People who probably didn't even like her very much and had only put up with her because of Harry and Ron. People who _pitied_ her openly, making themselves feel better about consoling the girl who had no friends. It was like she was an experiment going wrong, a mouse growing an ear on her back. Or a plant that was slowly withering away when it was played the Weird Sisters' Compilation album three times a day. 

Or a clever, sensible prefect who was slowly losing her mind. 

Hermione glared at the door, letting out an angry little puff of air. She was beginning to get annoyed now. 

She was quite honestly sick to death of everyone treating her like a ticking bomb or a child who needed to be kept an eye on. Goodness sake, did they not understand she wanted to be alone? Why could they not just stop meddling in things that weren't any of their business? Swinging her legs off of the bed and landing not too gracefully onto the flats of her feet, Hermione stormed over to the door. Yanking the latch to unlock, she pulled open the door so hard that it slammed against the wall, almost amazed by her own anger. Five wide eyed and open mouthed faces gaped back at her in shock.

"I would be fine if you all didn't insist on disturbing me all the time…!" she said fiercely, lips curling as she eyed each of her friends with dangerously narrowed eyes. "Unlike some of you, I care that the O.W.L.S are soon coming up and would like to study for them in peace! I appreciate the concern but please, just leave me _alone!_" 

Then silence.

Hermione suddenly realised that she must have looked like a crazy person with her puffy red eyes, wild bushy mane of hair, photograph of her dead friends still clutched to her chest with her left hand and the now maniacal glint in her eyes. She almost wanted to laugh at their horrified expressions with ironic hysteria but that action would have most probably found her sent straight to a mental asylum. 

Parvati looked shocked, all knowledge in the great art of blinking being driven out of her mind with the surprise. Lavender looked absolutely scandalised, her mouth opening and closing as though she were a ventriloquist's dummy. Dean looked nervous as he darted his eyes at his best friend, almost waiting for a signal for them both to strap her in a straight jacket and drag her kicking and screaming to St Mungo's. Meanwhile, Seamus himself was blinking out of his stupor, holding his tongue from saying 'Fecking Hellfire!' in his loud, boisterous voice. And Neville… Poor Neville looked like he was going to cry. Hermione felt a twang of remorse at his pale, worried face, biting her lip in slight shame. Maybe she had reacted too harshly…? They had only been trying to help…

However, this regret did not last a considerably long amount of time as a silent minute came and went, and Hermione was beginning to question whether she shut the door on the lot of them. But it was just as she properly considered carrying out the act that, quite unexpectedly, _Neville _stepped forward rather timidly. He raised his round face nervously, looking side to side for encouragement from his awkward looking comrades.

"We just… um, wanted to… Professor Dumbledore wants… to um, remind you that… meet with Professor Flitwick in the Common room… you know, at about two o'clock…?" he squeaked, his recently broken voice changing pitch at every two words. He raised his eyelashes courageously for a minute before lowering them again in awkwardness.

Hermione held her breath.

Last time Dumbledore had requested her company he'd not shared good news. He'd left her a broken mess. How could he have anything worse to share? She felt her heart plummet to the recesses of her stomach.

She turned to Neville in unmistakeable dread, trying to control the shaking of her hands. She could _not_ break down now. 

"Did… did he say why?" 

She would not cry. She would not cry. She would not cry.

Neville looked around him again, obviously at unease with being the centre of attention. No one seemed to be hurrying to relieve the bashful boy of his duty though. 

"The… the professor said you'd know."

She didn't. To be honest, the last few days were a blur. There was no doubt in her mind that she _should_ have known but she couldn't, for the life of her, recall. She just _couldn't_ remember. What on earth could it be?

She pondered it as she stood there, her friends watching her reaction with nervous concern. She even mulled over it as she bid them adieu, closing the door in their anxious faces and leaning back against the hard mahogany with a sigh. With a slight troubled frown on her tired face, she crawled onto her bed and lay back, stroking Crookshanks as he curled up upon her stomach contentedly. And that was where she stayed, her chest rising and falling gently, her face almost frozen in place, until Professor Flitwick knocked on her door to escort her solemnly to Dumbledore's office. And to, Miss Hermione Granger soon discovered when she inquired, the Will Hearing she was presently required to attend.****

* * *

**Chapter One – _Draco Malfoy_**

The boy blinked up at the man towering before him, the question just put to him still buzzing in his ear. Recovering from the initial shock, he soon contorted his pale face and let out a derisive, vicious snort. A pretty good one, by all standards, which reminded the boy yet again that he should patent it.

"Why the fuck would I go?" he scowled, his nose looking even pointier with his expression. "I'd rather die than even go to the brat's funeral and it's pretty fucking clear that he didn't leave me anything… And like I'd want any of Potter's tainted muggle goods anyway! It's got nothing to do with me." 

Professor Severus Snape, donned in his trademark black and looking thoroughly out of place against the interior of the Shrieking Shack, quirked an eyebrow at the blond boy. His black eyes looked emotionless. Draco Malfoy noted that spending over ten minutes trying to convince a spoilt little monster, like himself, to accompany him on Dumbledore's orders looked hardly his favourite errand to run. Snape just looked down at him with an extremely bored expression. He crossed his graceful arms with an audible 'swoop' noise, like a bird closing their wings. The blond looked unimpressed.

"For a boy of your superior upbringing, Mr Malfoy, I can never quite disguise my disbelief at your guttural language skills." 

Draco, who had been standing face to face with his teacher in a confrontational manner, scowled but averted his gaze. Why the fuck did everyone always say that? He didn't swear that often. Stupid pricks. What did they know about vocabulary? Their working-class accents were practically troll-literate. With an angry pout, he dropped down onto a sofa inelegantly. However, this was an action he soon regretted, wincing as a stray metal spring grazed against his hip. He could feel it cut into him, his best robes sliced as he hissed like a serpent. Why he hadn't yet insisted on this stupid fucking sofa to be thrown out and set alight to he didn't know. And then he suddenly did. His hand automatically pulled at the stuffing that was coming out of the arm in tufts, not missing the few loose strands of copper hair embedded in it, shining in the sparse light. He didn't look at it too long. 

"My apologies, Professor," he said shortly, bitterness present in his voice. Severus Snape raised a brow, as though the man were unsure whether or not the apology was said in sarcasm. Draco looked up, catching his penetrating gaze again, his pale lips pursed. "But I cannot see how Potter's bloody will reading will benefit me in any way." Snape pulled his most brilliant Wizard Poker face.

"I hear Mr Weasley's family will be there."

Draco clenched his jaw tightly, snapping his eyes away to look at the sidewall as though it was the most interesting object on God's earth. Why… why the hell would Snape think that he'd want to see that lot?

"So?" He crossed his arms fiercely. "Why would I want to see them? The Weasleys are a bunch of muggle-lovers and beggars who need to be neutered to stop inflicting the world with reproductions of themselves. They're a fucking disease in human form."

Snape looked mildly amused. Draco wanted to slap him. Fucking laughing at him… It was the truth, damn it! That family was a disgrace to the name of pureblood wizards. Especially that father! It was abnormal for someone to like muggles so much. And he was the head of the family! It was appalling! Why his department had not been shut down and his psycho self sent to St Mungo's Mental Institute he'd never understand.

"All of them?" the elder man asked. His voice had an underlying, almost condescending, tone to it.

Draco raised his head sharply, giving the Professor his most dangerous look. Who the fuck did he think he was? He may have been Draco's favourite teacher but he was really pushing his hair-thin patience. He was hanging by a nonexistent strand. And the Slytherin knew exactly what his Potions Master was fucking implying. 

"Every last one," Draco sneered softly. "And yes, Professor, even _him_." He should have poked out his own eye with the tip of his wand for letting his voice tremble like that at the end of his sentence. He sniffed loudly, trying to inhale some composure from the air, his teeth clenched tight. "And don't patronise me, sir." 

Severus Snape's face finally showed emotion, his black, glittering eyes narrowing as his mouth morphed into a soft curl. Draco did a victory dance within his head.

"Don't _you_ take that tone with me, young man," he almost barked, his greasy black hair limply swinging with his words. "Do you need reminding that I have known you since your birth? I am in possession of sixteen years of blackmail over your bull-headed self, Draco, so I would remind you to watch that malicious tongue of yours."

Draco just looked up at him. He refused to apologise. Please, like he ever fucking would for something as lame as that. He'd have to have accidentally severed that giant conk off the man's face before actually feeling genuinely repentant for something. And even then, Snape would probably thank him for improving his features anyway.

The Malfoy pouted. Why couldn't they all just fuck off and leave him to grieve? Wait, not over Weasel or anything. Not over his smile or his crazy temper or his endearing personality and his gorgeous hair… no. Grieve because he'd lost the best shag he'd ever had. That's all it was. All it could ever be. Which was something he'd keep in mind even when he eventually went through with his plan… 

But now he was getting off the subject. 

Draco scowled up at the man. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

"I don't want to bloody well go," he spat out, with less venom than he intended. He sounded more whiney than intimidating. Shit. He hated it when that happened. Draco cleared his throat, trying his damndest to look menacing. "Why the hell are you forcing me into this?" 

Snape was not impressed. He just looked calm, collected. He folded his hands before him.

"The Headmaster's orders, Mr Malfoy, not my own. I do, however, suggest you comply and stop being so inanely stubborn. It does get terribly tedious, not to mention trying of my time." 

Draco looked distrustful. To be honest, he usually did. Dumbledore was up to something. He knew it. He fucking hated it. It was like he was at beck and call of that old fool. An old fool who had more up his sleeve than a rabbit. Or was it a sock muggle magicians pulled them out of...? Oh, what the fuck did Draco care?! Why was he even thinking about this?! He loathed muggles and he absolutely hated bunnies. He'd never trusted rabbits. Father had always warned him of them. '_They may look like a child's plaything but they eat all your crops'. _He growled softly in his throat. They nibble on designer shoes, robes and your state-of-the-art broomstick, as well.

Draco exhaled loudly through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his thumb and middle finger to hold his throbbing temples. He fucking hated it when his brain ran off like that. If he could put his wondrous machine on a leash he would have been grateful. It was bloody embarrassing losing the semblance of control. After all, the crazier members of the Malfoy family were kept a secret and were made to live their lives under a number of mood-stabilising charms. But those were only the ones that did things like run around naked and eat their own children. The milder ones were labelled 'eccentric', due to their wealth and stature, and went about doing what they pleased. Murdering whom they pleased. 

His father, for example.

Draco swallowed, hard, his breathing going ragged. He suddenly felt light headed and tingly. Numb.

He knew Lucius had done it. Raised his wand and muttered the words. Made the redhead fall to his knees and to the ground. Eyes glazed over, empty of thought. Dead in an instant. He knew as soon as Dumbledore had come back from that house. He knew from that fucking look in his eye. That disgusting, pitying look that no one should have ever dared bestow upon a person like him. A person of his upbringing, his temper… his entire being.

And the Slytherin never wanted to hurt anyone the way he wanted to hurt Dumbledore at that moment. He wanted to kill the old man with his bare hands. The greatest fucking wizard of modern times? What bunch of crap. No fucking way was that bullshit true. If he really was _so_ bloody wonderful he could have stopped him. He could have saved him. But he fucking didn't. 

Draco's fists clenched tightly. He could see it now. The bastard Headmaster apparating into a circle of Death Eaters, jumping in front of that brat Potter. 

Potter, it was always fucking Potter. 

Potter, that ungrateful, arrogant little lout who always got the fucking praise and attention. Potter, who was oh so important to the Wizarding world. The saviour for the good… and all that shit. Who had more bodyguards than the bloody Minister of Magic himself. Who was practically a fucking muggle, the son of a Mudblood for Christ's sake. The most overrated person on the face of the planet. Everyone acting like bloody lunatics, risking their idiot lives and jumping out in front of him. Like sodding welcome mats. Walkover mats. Leaving the aim on Weasley wide open…

He snapped his eyes open. Thinking about this wouldn't help anyone. But he knew what would, and he would kill anyone who stood in his way… well, maim them, maybe. Get an eyebrow or two singed at the very least. But that was for another time.

He looked back up at Snape, an idea suddenly forming in his head. His grey eyes widened. Why hadn't he thought of it before? But… it was… fuck it, it was _so_ disgustingly below him. How could he possibly lower himself to such a degree? Was it even worth it? Could he actually ask such a thing without throwing up or hiding in pure shame? Draco let out a raggedy breath, feeling thoroughly pissed off. The things he was forced to do…

He tried to hold control of the absolute revulsion begging to escape from his throat. He didn't succeed very well. 

"Will that Mudb- Uh… will Granger be there?" Snape, the master of composure, blinked. Draco avoided his eyes, his cheeks stained pink. He couldn't fucking believe he was asking this. Bastard Weasley. Just because of his sorry arse he had to ask something so damn depraved and embarrassing. Granger. Please, like he would ordinarily give a shit about Granger. He hoped she was sobbing her guts out about their deaths. 

Snape's open mouth soon closed softly before the corners turned upward mirthlessly. Now, why the fuck was he so bloody amused by all this? Draco tried not to frown at him.

"I am led to believe that she will," Snape said, his lips twisting oddly. "Your new pet Gryffindor for month, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco almost laughed. What was the man, blind? Hadn't he seen the Mudblood? Holy fuck, he wouldn't touch Granger if she was made out of chocolate. Or if she, even better, had red hair and freckles. He didn't want to catch some filthy muggle disease, after all. Good God, Snape really was droll in the most unintentional way. 

The young Malfoy smiled thinly at his professor.

"Hardly, sir. I'm a pureblooded fag, remember?"

If Draco didn't know better, he'd say that Snape's thin eyebrows had lost themselves within the depths of his greasy hair. And, if the Potions Master wasn't so damn controlled, he'd have been grinning. Draco didn't know what the big deal was. So he was gay, who cared? It wasn't a big deal or anything. The professor's lip twitched.

"An eloquent way to put it. Indeed, I do recall. Only too well." He gave the blond a look, and the boy could almost see what Snape had seen that day he'd caught him and Weasley, reflected in those glittering black eyes. Draco shifted uncomfortably. Now wasn't a good time to be thinking about that… 

Stupid fucking Weasley. He wasn't even alive, yet his touch was still haunting him. Ghosting upon him like some physical memory. He'd get him back for this. Death wasn't nearly enough for that prick for doing this to him, especially when Draco was going to… well. 

He shook out of it, looking back up at his Head of House. He shrugged, trying to cast an impression of nonchalance over himself as he swiped imaginary bits of dust off his impeccable robes with the back of his hand.

"Well, if I have to sodding go, I'll have to go," he drawled. "Not like I fucking want to or anything…" He chanced a look up at his professor. 

Snape just smirked again and Draco knew the man could see right through his act. He grimaced to himself as he thought upon his performance of it. From violently against the idea to suddenly accepting his fate? Malfoys were never that erratic in mood. And they never, ever accepted anything. They were never pleased or satisfied. Why do you think they scowled so much? There was an actual reason behind it. Hundreds of years of Malfoy genes, evolving into the more extreme with every new generation.

Yes, Snape could see it as clear as day, and Draco knew it. He knew his Potions Master could see he needed that Granger. That he needed to talk to the whiny, bossy little cow. It pained him to admit it but he needed her help. She must have been the cleverest witch in the year for a reason, Mudblood or not. And hey, she was a Gryffindor. Trustworthy, brave… stupid. She wouldn't get in his way. She'd just give him the help he wanted then go back to her books. He wouldn't even have to spend much time with her. Yes, that's how it would be. She wouldn't dare to cross him. He could just see it now… Granger obeying his every word, nodding her enormous head meekly and running about doing errands for him, like a bushy-haired house elf. He smiled maliciously to himself at the thought. Yes, he had it all sorted. What could possibly go wrong?

"Now, if I can tear you away from your fascinating thoughts, Draco…" 

Snape's silky, sardonic voice brought him back to the present. Draco mentally reprimanded himself yet again for losing touch with reality. One day he was sure he'd never find his way back. Stupid, wonderful, genius mind of his. Looking to the hooked-nosed teacher, he was surprised to find that Snape actually had a soft expression on his face, which Draco just didn't understand at all. Was… was Snape pitying him? The Slytherin immediately growled at the thought. _He_ did the pitying. No one else. And _he_ decided what they were to do next. No one bossed him about. Ever. Especially some lackey of Dumbledore's. He curved his lips, one silver brow raised.

"Let's go then," he said shortly, not allowing his teacher to finish as he grabbed his invisibility cloak from a nearby hook. Draping it over himself in a matter of seconds he dramatically sashayed out the room, not taking into account that he could not be seen strutting out the door by his teacher.

Snape watched the Malfoy go, so amused that his teeth almost showed. The boy really was a foolish, comical little brat. He controlled himself in time, however, and schooled his features back to their default expression. Taking an unimpressed look about the shack with his dark eyes and making a sound disgust in his throat, he followed his student out.

* * *

_For information on updates, you can join my webgroup :) - groups.yahoo.com/group/not_in_denial/join_


	3. Chapter 2 The Will Reading

**_Author Notes:_**_ Ok, how long has it been?! :D I'm so sorry! I've been so lazy! I just totally lost inspiration, Hermione stumps me every time… I just find her far too difficult to write! I'm going to try and stick to Draco more often._

_Ok, I only really wrote this chapter so fast for Dee-Dee (heh) whose birthday is today so here's a chapter for you, hon – HAPPY BRITHDAY, EVIL MINX! :D Love you! :) _

_Oh, and again, Claire, darling… this whole story is for you :P_

_Lizzie, sweetheart… you'd better be reading this! I know I got you hooked on R/S but you're reading my story, dammit! :D And 'It's Rubbish' isn't an excuse! :P_

_Dedications also go to Sophie (mwah! mwah! mwah!), Maria/Jaime (same person, man :P), the wonderful Manu and of course, the gorgeous Maud._

_As usual, the ever talented Marta must be thanked because her INiD art always cheers me up and makes me want to write again! Whee! Hope you all enjoy! xxxx_

* * *

**Chapter 2 - Hermione**

Hermione Granger wasn't a girl who was easily lost for words. In fact, as many a person had remarked, she could barely keep her mouth shut. Her hand was always aloft and frantic in the air in class, literally _begging _for the permission to publicly speak her mind. It had been a habit since childhood, as Mrs Granger had only too often informed her only daughter. The more popular stories (how she had said her first word at a remarkable 7 months and would place all her teddy bears and dolls in a line, lecturing them all as a teacher would unruly school children) were imprinted in Hermione's mind. The nostalgic musings of her mother had turned into actual memories, as though she could remember pointing, at 7 months, at her large volume of fairytales and pronouncing 'book' proudly before attempting to eat them. 

'Book'. Of all the words she could have uttered first. Harry and Ron had both howled with laughter at the story when her mother had told them on that Christmas holiday the three of them at spent at the Grangers. Ron had proclaimed, still chuckling, that he had always known that she had an unhealthy love for them and asked if he could be best man at the ceremony. She had promptly told him, nose in the air and cheeks bright pink, to shut up.

But right now, she would quite easily have given every book she owned to hear him tease her again. To hear Harry laugh, clutching his sides and eventually wheezing into exhaustion. 

She had always told herself she hated it when they ganged up on her and taunted her endlessly. But that had not been hate. Not really. Not at all. If she thought on it rationally, as she usually did with everything, that had been as far from hate as possible. Ron calling her 'a bossy little know-it-all' and Harry sniggering with him. Or Ron and Harry turning around from the chessboard, blank-faced and blinking at her after she'd lectured them on house elves; Harry smirking, "Slow down there, Hermione!" as Ron merely stated, "You really talk a lot, you know that?"

They had a point really. Not that she would ever dare admit it to herself. 

So, when she was taken into Dumbledore's office by Professor Flitwick and, for the first time since the incident, saw all the Weasleys sitting within the office, Hermione was surprised to find herself completely speechless. But then again, she really wasn't that taken aback. 

How could one know what to say to a family who had lost their son? 

Who had lost a huge part of their own lives? 

There was a noticeable vacant, empty space in the sea of red hair. A visible gaping hole that was usually filled. One missing lanky body standing beside his fellow siblings and the absent small, green-eyed, black-haired boy who usually stood beside him. For Harry had practically been adopted by the Weasleys and they seemed to be mourning the loss of two of their family.  

Small, plump Mrs Weasley was sitting in a chair, her remaining family around her comfortingly. She was sobbing into a spotted handkerchief with Mr Weasley's arm placed around her, his broken voice softly attempting to shush her tears. His shaking hands stroked down her shoulders soothingly to cease her shuddering, although he himself looked hardly that much better. His eyes were incredibly bloodshot, as though he hadn't slept for days and his face was ghost white. His hair seemed to have greyed exceptionally during the last few days and, partnered with the lines on his face, made the usually happy man look years older. And his jaw kept tightening and loosening often, as though he were physically stopping himself from joining his wife in open grief… 

Hermione felt her heart lurch as she watched them all, her insides twisting in a way that made her squeeze shut her eyes. 

She didn't know how she could deal with this. After all, she… she had never had someone close to her die before this and now… 

Now it was like a feeling of overabundance. 

This wasn't an exam. This wasn't a situation she could fix with her cleverness. This wasn't another adventure where everything would turn out for the best in the end. Harry and Ron wouldn't jump out from behind a pillar and yell, "Gotcha!"

She really was utterly lost.

Eyes still tightly closed, she'd decided that she'd seen enough. Holding onto her own sorrow was hard enough without witnessing everyone else's…

Bill Weasley standing behind his mother's chair, holding the back of it as he stooped his tall frame over… whispering words of comfort into Molly Weasley's ear whilst sharing an odd, blank look with his brother Charlie… 

Charlie Weasley, crouching in front of Mrs Weasley, darting hollow looks back at Bill. Both looking forlorn, as though they hadn't a clue what to do with themselves now. Bill, always seeming to exude confidence and an easy composure, visibly shaking. Looking as though he was going to throw up. Trembling fingers tightening their hold on the back of the chair. Turning to Fred, George and Ginny, trying to look strong, asking if they were all right…

Fred Weasley sitting lifelessly beside his brother George, both staring off into space. Ginny Weasley, sitting on the other side of George, head in her hands, body shuddering, palms growing wet with tears…

Percy Weasley, standing gangly, back to the room, appearing to be staring out of a window. Away from his family, eyes really shut, arms crossed, bottom lip bit, shoulders trembling…

"Her-Hermione, dear?"

She reopened her eyes, although she knew very well that it was Mrs Weasley's shaking voice. The elder woman's distraught face was in her sight for but a second before she was pulled into a tight embrace, Mrs Weasley's tears soaking her hair.

Hermione couldn't help it. She just couldn't. She had been called overemotional many a time, usually by Harry and Ron, but she just couldn't stand it. The feeling of despair pushed up from her stomach and up her throat. And then she burst into tears as well, hugging Mrs Weasley tightly back.

It should have felt odd. 

Hermione had always secretly felt as though Mrs Weasley was less fond of her than the others, remembering her considerably smaller Easter egg after that dreadful Rita Skeeter article. But, at that moment, Mrs Weasley was holding her for dear life, stroking her hair like a child who had scraped both their knees on the ground. And the bushy-haired girl appreciated it. She hadn't been able to show her grief to anyone, not even her own parents when Dumbledore had sent her the news on Boxing Day. But the Weasleys… they understood more than anyone else could.

Mrs Weasley pulled back, sniffing loudly and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. 

"We've… we've been waiting for you, dear…" She sniffed again, her tears still falling as she procured a homemade handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Hermione. Hermione took it gratefully. "P-Professor Dumbledore will be back soon and then we can… we can make the proper… the proper aran… arrangem…" Mrs Weasley collapsed into the nearest chair, sobbing again. Mr Weasley, his two eldest sons and Ginny hurried forward.

"There, there, Molly, don't cry…" he said to his wife, helping her out of the seat although he had tears streaking down his face, too. "Ron wouldn't have wanted to see you this way. Neither would have Harry. Please, dear…"

"Come on, mum, let's sit on the sofa," Bill said softly, almost carrying his mother to the corner of the room where a blue and yellow-starred couch lay. Ginny was holding her mother's hand tightly and Charlie was keeping a firm hand on her elbow to keep her from falling. As they eased her down, Mrs Weasley, however, couldn't seem to bear to let go of any of the three of her children. So, they remained by her, seated on either side of her, Charlie having to make do, quite uncomfortably, with an armrest. They continued to try and calm her tears for a moment when a POP of a noise sounded and Charlie dropped down to find his bottom resting beside Ginny, the armrest now on the other side of him. The sofa had been elongated, but who…?

"I hope that is more comfortable, Charles?" Charlie, still looking as though the situation had flown over his head, nodded with a mixture of befuddlement and gratitude as the headmaster walked in with a sad smile on his face. The aging Professor immediately walked over to Mrs Weasley, patting her shoulder sympathetically, who, to Hermione's surprise, put her hand over his.

"Th-thank you for all your help, Albus," she said, not looking at his eyes as she continued to cry into her hankie.

"No trouble at all, Molly," he said kindly, motioning gently for Mr Weasley, Percy and Hermione to please sit down. Mr Weasley, who seemed to be trembling all over, let his legs give way and collapsed into a seat, his elbow on his knee, a clammy hand holding the top of his balding head. Percy just stood, shaking his head with what seemed like difficulty, before turning back to the window again. Hermione, feeling uncomfortably like an outsider in the situation, took the empty seat beside Fred and George. It was eerie. They were just… so quiet. Lifeless, like hollow shells of their previous selves. Watching everything without looking at one another, without sharing a common, cheeky look. Maybe it was because their lives were usually full of fun and jokes. Maybe because there was nothing remotely funny to laugh at during that moment. 

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk, watching them all with a sombre look. His astute blue eyes were watching Bill with his arm around his mother, Mr Weasley trembling in his seat and Charlie with his sister's head leaning against his arm. Hermione even saw them flick over Fred and George… and lastly, at Percy. And that was when she saw it. A flicker in his eyes that showed misgiving, as though he didn't want to be here, doing this. Hermione squeezed shut her eyes again. She wanted him to hurry up. Once this was over and done with she could go back to her room and hold Crookshanks. Or go to the Owlery, visit Pig and Hedwig…

Then the Headmaster, after a deep breath, eventually started talking.

"To the people in this room, Harry Potter was not just the Boy Who Lived or 'that boy with the scar'. He was a genuinely good, brave young man, who was loved very dearly, by every one of us here…" Hermione saw Percy's back stiffen "…but he was also a young man with enemies. Enemies who, for years, prevented him living like every wizard his age should. Enemies so dangerous that Harry himself believed that writing a will at fifteen was necessary. And, unfortunately, Harry's beliefs were not unfounded…

It is as I read this document that I am privileged to have the honour to be, by Harry's own request, the reader of his will. And it is, with a heavy heart, that I accept the duty of reading his last will and testament."

Mrs Weasley let out another sob. Hermione squeezed shut her eyes again, feeling the hot tears falling down her cheeks. Dumbledore's voice was faintly shaking as he began.

"I, Harry James Potter, being of sound mind and body, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking any and all wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made. 

Item 1: My fortune in Vault 613 at Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley, will be hereby divided into four equal parts. One quarter of this sum shall be bequeathed to my best friend, Mr Ronald Weasley, to be shared amongst the Weasley family, whom I have taken as my own for the past five years."

Mrs Weasley cried harder, Bill rocking her softly in his arms. 

"One quarter shall be given unto my other best friend, Miss Hermione Granger, to pay for every book she has ever wished for in Flourish and Blotts, except any by Gilderoy Lockhart. I cannot stress this enough."

Hermione, her handkerchief held over her initially shocked face, let out a sob of a laugh. Dumbledore paused to give her a soft look before looking back down at the paper before him.

"One quarter shall be bequeathed to Mr Rubeus Hagrid, Gamekeeper of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly and the dearest friend a wizard could have, who is, at present, on reconnaissance work. Lastly, one quarter shall be bestowed to my dear Godfather, Mr Sirius Black…

Now, Item 2… the distribution of possessions…"

And on it went. Hermione sat, hand clamped over her face, listening to Dumbledore's voice drone on. Funeral arrangements, last requests … the Firebolt, the Marauders Map, the invisibility cloak… _all_ going to her. 

It was so surreal. So wrong. 

This was the death of Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived was dead. It just… it seemed so strange. Harry's death should have only happened after the defeat of Voldemort. He should have died in a blaze of glory. With a huge, flamboyantly expensive funeral ceremony, a massive room full of people speaking fondly of him… not with a small group sitting in a small room in his school, sharing out his things between them.

And what on earth was she going to do with the Firebolt? It shouldn't have been going to her. It was always destined to go to Ron, both she and Harry had planned it once he got a Tempest 3000 from Sirius for his next birthday. After all, everyone could plainly see that the worst part of Ron's greatly improved game was, undoubtedly, his speed. As new as his Cleansweep was, even Ron quite grudgingly had admitted that it was always outmatched by the other more expensive brooms on the pitch. It was a problem that Ron had been reminded of quite often, especially as Malfoy, with his Nimbus 2001, took every opportunity to shout out mocking taunts about it during matches….

She shouldn't have been thinking this. She should be paying attention. She should have been listening to her friend's last requests but by the time she had managed to focus on Dumbledore's voice articulating Harry's words, it was over. 

Were his requests really so short? Or had her mind wandered for longer than she had herself realised? But then again, there wasn't much responsibility for a fifteen year old, was there? No real debts to pay or unfinished business to sort out. No responsibility at all, besides the whole of the Wizarding world relying on you to save them all… 

She got dazedly to her feet, Bill and Mr Weasley helping to escort a hobbling Mrs Weasley out of the room. Fred and George followed, identical heads bent down and feet shuffling, not meeting anyone's eyes. Ginny and Charlie went next, Charlie with his arm around his sister, Ginny throwing Hermione a forced, weak little smile. Hermione found it very painful to return. They would talk later. She knew they would. Right now the moment was too profound to talk. And lastly Percy…

Hermione shivered at the look he had bestowed upon her before walking out. It was hateful and cold. Accusatory. She could read his expression clearly, as though he had subtitles tattooed to his forehead.

She should have died with them. 

Maybe if she had fought beside them an idea would have spawned inside her head that could have saved them in the nick of time. It had happened before. Her intellect had always saved them, every other time they went up against Him. 

Why on earth did she put entertaining relatives for Christmas over protecting her friends?

She suddenly felt very sick. She hadn't eaten a thing that day but she had the greatest need to throw up. To heave out all the guilt that was wriggling and burning inside her stomach. Hermione staggered forward, her head spinning, her legs feeling heavy…

But Dumbledore was standing in her way. He stood solidly in front of the door, making it an impossibility for her to leave, especially in her state. It took her a while but she soon noticed why he was there. He had a letter clutched in his hand and he was pointing it directly at her. His tired, wrinkled face was smiled softly.

"Miss Granger, I believe Harry wanted you to have this."

* * *

**Chapter 2 – Draco Malfoy**

It should have been sickening, standing there, watching the display almost like a show. It should have made him want to throw up and laugh at the Weasleys for being so sad and pathetic and needy… but it didn't. Draco just stood there, wrapped up in his invisibility cloak, standing beside Dumbledore and watching him read Potter's blasted will. 

For a second after he had first entered the room with the Headmaster, he almost thought he had been seen by the Weasley girl, her eyes looking curiously at his unseen self. She was, even now, casting glances at his corner of the room, especially since Dumbledore had to close the door with such bloody ceremony that it nearly blew his cloak off. But somehow he managed to keep it on; not without swearing foully inside his head, of course. If that little ginger bitch had seen him then she could ruin everything. Luckily, she soon looked away and leaned into one of the brothers Draco had never even seen before. 

The Slytherin let out the breath he didn't even know he had been holding. Not that he was worried. Because he wasn't. 

That stupid fucking Dumbledore. 

How that buffoon of a man became Headmaster he would never know. And no, he didn't take into account how _supposedly_ powerful he was. The man looked like he could hardly lift his own wand without straining a ligament. And Voldemort was scared of this joke of a wizard? _Please._ The Dark Lord was so fucking paranoid. He probably thought that the Flobberworms wriggling about in Professor Snape's supply closet were trying to revolt against him.

Draco chewed on his tongue restlessly, glaring at Dumbledore for making him endure such torment. Dumbledore was too engrossed with reading to notice but Draco just knew the old man could feel his gaze. So he narrowed his eyes and intensified his glare even more. 

Why he had to even be here he had no fucking clue. He didn't want to be here. He had better things to do, like place Anti-Wrinkle Charms on his underwear and manicure his toenails. He had much more interesting tasks to complete rather than standing around like a fucking prat; an action which was actually punishable by Malfoy law. And every one of the tasks he currently wished he would rather have been doing were as far from these disgraced wizards and witches as possible. 

He didn't bloody care that they were Weasley's nearest and dearest. He didn't fucking well care. He loathed the very sight of them. He would honestly not bat an eyelid if any one of them were hurt or injured in any way. In fact, he would thoroughly encourage it in Granger's case… 

Wait, scrap that. He needed the lowly cow. 

Shit. 

And just when he thought of a cheerful thought.

But, in any case, why was Dumbledore torturing him by forcing him in a room with all these appalling people? Draco scowled under his breath and noted that Dumbledore inclined his head ever so slightly to the left. The boy glowered some more. 

Why, at his disgustingly ancient age, could the batty old fool have the hearing of a wolf? 

The Slytherin grouchily crossed his arms across his chest, tapping his foot impatiently. Daring someone to hear him…_ Wanting _someone to hear him. He _wanted _attention, dammit! He hated hiding behind this cloak because he wasn't supposed to be seen. He _hated_ not being seen. Being fucking locked away like some dirty little secret across the grounds when people like Mudblood Granger could parade around and filthy up the name of Hogwarts… 

And here he was, a Malfoy! A pureblood! Someone of the noblest wizard blood on the planet! Here he bloody well was, hiding behind a flimsy cloak and having to fucking _crouch_ and strain his back because of his height! 

He turned to give Granger a particularly dirty look to punctuate the injustice of his situation but, when he saw her, his face couldn't seem to pull it. She was almost crying her insides out into a handkerchief, her entire face covered by the ugly scrap of material. In fact, she wasn't the only person sobbing. Weasley's whale of a mother was practically in howling hysterics and Weasley's ridiculously skinny father was shaking like he had been hit with a Tremulus Jinx. Even those dangerously unhinged twins weren't being normal… well, as normal as those twisted freaks of nature could get. And then that Peter Weasel, his sister, those other two brothers…

Not that Draco wasn't surprised but… 

Then he realised what was disturbing him.

His parents would never have mourned his own death like this. 

Pansy would cry but that pathetic bitch cried at everything. Crabbe and Goyle burst into tears even when you call them fat. And Zabini, the only Slytherin he really respected, would eventually get over it and continue his booming trade of smuggling illegal goods into Hogwarts. 

To be honest, the only person Draco could imagine to ever really grieve his passing would have been…

His stomach gave a funny jolt. 

He didn't like this. It made him feel a way that he had never felt before. It was a feeling so alien and almost unidentifiable that it scared the fucking crap out of him. He couldn't describe it. Which pissed him the hell off because he could always read his feelings well. Those bastard Gryffindors. They were corrupting him! He could fucking feel it. He would be sporting a tattoo of a lion on his arse next.

He absolutely hated this sick feeling inside of him. What reason would he have to be sick?! He was alive, Mark-less, almost illegally attractive and there was only one Weasley he didn't hate with a passion… surely seeing their open show of heartache would cheer him up! 

Oh, he hated every one of those redheaded, poor bastards for making him not hate them, not ridicule or laugh at them. He hated them because he, disgustingly, didn't feel that mourning the loss of one Ronald Weasley was a ridiculous thing to do. The loss of an underprivileged, overly tempered Gryffindor…

Draco, his arms already crossed, could feel his fingernails digging into the slight flesh of his elbows. Biting the inside of his cheek, he decided to listen to Dumbledore instead, forcing his mind to concentrate on his slow, raspy voice as punishment for thinking of other, more unfavourable, things. Served it fucking well right. Let it be bored stupid.

God, did Potter waffle on about shit or what? Arrogant little prick, listing his things like that just to make himself sound so rich and important, even in death. What, were they all supposed to be impressed? Drop dead just like him with the shock of hearing about all the things he owned? Draco snorted. Well, he could see right through the martyr act. 

Potter was just some ordinary, tainted-blooded, skinny little wretch with a hideous scar across his face - that was all. He didn't even defeat Voldemort, like everyone was so convinced he would have… and they still all mourned him! 

The fucking Daily Prophet… Potter had been on the front page of every issue since he had bloody popped his muggle clogs! There was a fucking minute's silence Monday at eleven in the morning, for Christ's sake! 

And so it was that Draco, at 11am each Monday morning, made an extra special effort to make as much noise during that minute as humanly possible. However, the rumour mills of Hogwarts were now frantically spreading the story that the Shrieking Shack was more haunted than ever and Draco often saw first years daring one another to ring the doorbell and throw pebbles at his windows. The blond recently humoured himself by hiding in his invisibility cloak, throwing vicious curses at them and laughing cruelly as they ran off, their backsides on fire. Ahhh, those were such happy memories…

"Miss Granger…" 

Draco snapped his head up, his evil smile still clinging resolutely to his lips. He furrowed his sharp brows. Would you look at that, everyone was gone. Well, thank fuck. Anymore time with the Weasleys and he would have to run home and shower for the next week and…. well, well, well… what was Dumbledore giving the Mudblood? O.W.L cheat sheets? Draco smirked to himself. For one thing, it would explain her grades. Like the filthy bitch could ever beat him at anything without fixing it first. However, he stopped smiling so smugly when he heard the old man's next words. 

"…I believe Harry wanted you to have this."

Draco's face went blank.

…Potter?! 

What the-?!

A letter from the grave? Why didn't Draco get one?! Not from that imbecile Potter, you idiots! From his stupid bastard friend… that imbecile Weasley! The poor fucker probably didn't even know how to write! 

Dumbledore turned visibly to Draco's corner, giving him a poignant look. Draco wanted to hex his face off. What was he, taunting him?! 

_Oh look, Mr Malfoy, nobody gives a damn about you…_

Draco sneered at him. That prune-faced bastard.

The Slytherin, baring his teeth, glared at the scene. Glared at Granger, who took the letter with shaking hands and thanked the headmaster before ducking her bushy self out the door. Glared at Dumbledore, who had left the door open for Draco to go back to the shack…

Lifting his chin, Draco made sure not to touch the headmaster as he passed, pinning the ends of his cloak to himself.

Go to the shack? Please, he had unfinished business. He had a letter to read and a Mudblood to bully. And so he followed her. 

Finally getting down those stairs and passing that stupid stone gargoyle guarding the entrance of Dumbledore' s office, Draco turned his head both sides as if crossing the road. Ahhh, there she was, second corridor. To be honest, Granger wasn't exactly hard to miss with that giant head of hers. 

Ugh, how vile she was. 

Didn't the girl own a comb? What was it with the dream team? Potter had a nest atop his head, Granger had a haystack and Weasley… ok, his hair wasn't too bad. Draco would hardly shag anyone with dreadful hair anyway. 

Or a mediocre face. 

Or a huge arse. 

Or a mole.

Frowning, he sped up, having to wheel his way between the mounds of students making their way to lunch, all with disgustingly excited looks on their faces. 

Gluttonous little pricks. 

He wove his way through, being sure to elbow the especially pleased looking children in his way as he quickened his steps after the Gryffindor prefect. For a bossy little bookworm, the cow could move pretty damn fast. 

Pushing one last first-year Hufflepuff to the ground, Draco was finally free of the throng and found himself jogging after the girl to keep up. He craned his neck to eye the envelop held in her hand. 

What the fuck did it say? 

They only needed to ascend one more flight of steps before the Gryffindor common room came into view. Granger walked up to the gigantic pink woman who lived in the frame who was, rather appropriately, stuffing her face with food. Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste as she started with the young witch's presence.

"Oh!" she said, her eyes wide and her mouth open, the half-chewed remains of her lunch on show. Draco sneered at her lack of manners as she placed her hand over her mouth and swallowed her mouthful loudly. Fucking Gryffindors, even their paintings were uncultured. "Well, goodness, me! I didn't see you there, dear… shouldn't you be at lunch? Well, never mind… Password?" 

Granger who had been looking nervous and agitated to read her letter, suddenly looked up, her face drooping sadly.

"…D-Devil's Snare," she said, almost above a whisper. The portrait automatically swung open and Draco could hear the fat picture lady stuffing her face again, chomping away. Being an expert at sneaking into this common room with someone else, Draco slickly glided inside, giving himself enough time to slip through unnoticed by Granger. However, he made sure to remember to walk quite close behind her. 

He knew about those bloody stairs going to the girl's dorms. He had once run up the Slytherin stairs to attack Pansy for telling the common room they were engaged before finding them disappearing under his feet and replaced by a slippery steep ramp.

Let's say, he was not amused. And neither was Pansy by the time he finished with her.

However, Draco also knew that if a boy walked up those stairs in the presence of a girl, the stairs would remain stationary. Which meant he had to stay close to the stupid, filthy little mare. The things he did for Weasley. It was fucking degrading…! Following Granger, of all people, into her _bedroom_ in secret! If anyone found this out he would never live it down. And he would also make sure that they wouldn't live as well.

Thanking the very first Malfoy ever for being so light on their feet, Draco crept behind her and somehow managed to sneak through the gap in the door. Ha, and Lucius always berated him for being so thin. He knew it would come in handy for something. Almost catching the end of his cloak on the door as Granger closed it shut, Draco jumped inside, giving the girl an incensed glare. 

What was she doing, trying to kill him!? Ok, so she didn't know he was there… but still! Who shuts a door like that?! 

Draco only actually stopped insulting the girl when she dropped down to sit on her trunk and began to delicately open her envelop with care.

_Oh for fuck's sake… it's made of bloody paper, not gold, you daft bitch… tear it open with your teeth if you have to! _

Grumbling under his breath, but making sure to do it as silently as possible, Draco crept lightly towards her, one hand on her four poster bed and peeking at the letter from over her seated head. His grey eyes narrowed, moving side to side across the paper as they devoured Potter's words as fast as possible…

**_Hermione,_**

**_If you're reading this, then… I suppose I'm dead._**

**_Ok, not really a cheerful way to start a letter, is it? Kind of morbid of me, really. Writing a letter just in case I croak it. But hey, it was something everyone was expecting to happen… even you, I bet. And don't bother protesting; someone as smart as you knew this was coming eventually._**

**_Right, this letter sounds truly lame already but I really do need to tell you some things. There's stuff you need to know and if I died too early for you to find them out then I needed to let you know somehow._**

**_Professor Dumbledore said that a pensieve would be a good idea but… there are some things that are better to read, which you know, than… um, see._**

**_First off, if I didn't say goodbye before I went, then I'm sorry. I'm sure you already knew it but you, Ron, Sirius and the Weasleys were the most important people in my life, better than any family, especially my excuse for one. So, just know, if I didn't say a proper farewell to you guys, I always wanted to. _**

**_Now, ok, the second thing I have to tell you about is more… hard to explain. I'm writing to you about this now because you seriously have NO idea how guilty I've been feeling about it. Maybe it doesn't seem important now but at the time… I was just bursting to let you know. Seriously, this was the only thing Ron and I have ever kept from you and... it's going to sound kind of unreal._**

**_Thing is, it started on that day Ron and Malfoy had that fight… remember? With Ron in the hospital wing for days? And then when Malfoy got expelled… we thought he was gone, didn't we? I mean to say, we thought the sneaky little git was shipped off back home, right?_**

**_Things weren't as simple as that though. God, weren't they that simple._**

**_Remember the howler that morning from his dad? Turns out the pasty ferret refused the Dark Mark and refused to join the Death eaters. And Dumbledore actually kept him in school without anyone knowing, hid him away in the Shrieking Shack, of all places. No one was supposed to know and Ron and I weren't allowed to tell you. We wanted to! I mean, we truly did but Malfoy had threats on his life and… well, it's not like we didn't trust you, it was more Ron's… well, relationship with Malfoy that stopped us telling._**

**_Now, um… are you sitting down? If you're not, Hermione, you'd better find a seat. Trust me, it's not going to be pretty. _**

**_Right. Ok, first things first; brace yourself, because there are certain things you really need to know about Ron and prat we know as Draco Malfoy…_**__

Draco's kept on reading over her shoulder, his mouth dropping open when he finally finished.

That mangy bastard! He was lucky he was already dead! What was Potter doing retelling _his_ private business to GRANGER for?! Gryffindor honour, his arse! They were all total gossips! _Why_ did Granger have to know about Draco's sex life?! Why?! Why?! Why!? Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!

_"Why?!?!"_

Oops. That wasn't supposed to come out.

Draco immediately shut his mouth.

However, the damage was done. Granger screamed at his sudden shriek and jumped to her feet, pulling out her wand and instantly yelled out an incantation.

Draco didn't have time to dodge out the way. Doubling over, he gasped, the spell hitting him fiercely in the stomach and knocking the breath out of him completely. Both his hands immediately cradled his aching abdomen, his knees giving way as he landed hard on the ground and his cloak slipping off him.

Granger, looking from scared, to determined, to totally gobsmacked, was staring at the boy kneeling in agony on the ground before her like he was ghost. When recognition hit her features she didn't lower her wand. On the contrary, Hermione Granger raised it higher and aimed right at his face, her whole body shaking uncontrollably, her complexion death white and her face both shocked and furious.

"Wha-what the _hell _are you doing in my room, Malfoy…?!" 


	4. Chapter 3 The Spell

_Hello! Sorry I've been so late…! Aren't I always? :) This chapter is… sort of where the plot starts. Yes, there is a plot! I know it's mad… but trust me :D There's a very vague one. Please read and review… it really will make my day!_

_Like I always do, I'm going to thank the usual suspects :D My Claire, my Matti, my Lizzie,  my Jaime, my Maria, my Manu, my Sophie, my Dee, my Maud and my Simmy for raising my ego to new levels and lastly and leastly, Gary, for laughing his arse off when he read chapter 9 and calling me a pervert. I'm only thanking you because you've still got Mr Bear! _

_Hope you guys like! :P_

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Draco Malfoy**

Draco Malfoy didn't hear the girl's words or heed the angry tone of them. He didn't mark the fury, complete shock or the tears streaming down her face. He didn't even give a shit about how cold and hard the floor was beneath him when he fell upon it rather gracelessly. All he really knew, all he was truly aware of at that moment in time, was that the little mudblood… that little _bitch_ of a mudblood… had hexed him.

Had hexed him, of all people, _him!_

He had fucking well allowed an impure, ugly chipmunk of a _witch_ to get one over on him…! An impure, ugly chipmunk of a_ Gryffindor_ to make him fall! Literally _fall_ on the fucking ground beneath her, for Lucifer's sake! 

It was all so depraved and wrong that it made Draco almost speechless with rage. Yes, _'almost'_ because someone as inconsequential and repulsive as Granger could hardly ever affect a person of his blood and heritage so deeply. She was merely a nuisance, that was all. Like a particularly irritating fly that refused to cease buzzing about his head. A silly, unimportant little girl really. A trifling matter…

But still, how had this even happened?! How was something like this even possible?! Hermione fucking Granger, beating _him_?! A dirty-blooded _girl _throwing him off his centre?! Where the hell were his Malfoy instincts, his ruthlessness, his guile, his cunning…?

Where the bloody hell had he stashed his bloody wand!?

Oh yes, here in his pocket. 

Draco quickly groped at his hip to hold it in its place just in case it decided to do something rash like sprout wings and fly towards Greenland. It's not like it hadn't happened before…

He pulled out his wand, just in case, as if drawing his sword in battle. A battle of darkness against light, wizard against witch, evil against good… 

Draco smirked. 

Beauty against the beast was quite obviously the most apt title, in his own conceited opinion. Cocking his head to the side and staring at the nothingness over the girl's left shoulder, the Malfoy paused to revel in his own cleverness and wordplay for a while before remembering why he had removed his wand from his pocket in the first place. 

Oh yes, make the ugly slag pay through the nose. Draco immediately got into character, coaching his face into a nasty scowl. 

He was going to teach her not to mess with him again. He was going to scalp her bald, make her nose hair grow so it wrapped three times around a Quidditch pitch, make her teeth grow so long that they would get imbedded in the ground, blast away all her IQ points so she had to take tutorial lessons from Longbottom, torture her so much that the Cruciatus curse would feel like a tickling charm by the time he was through…

And then Draco stopped, swiping viciously at his own mind like an irritated cat who was sick of playing with dangling bits of yarn. 

Fuck it all sideways with a hat-stand. 

He had forgot _yet_ again that he needed that stupid, enormous-headed bitch's help. He needed her intact. He needed her brain working at full throttle. He needed her intellect and her stealth. He may have completely hated the girl to bits and constantly denied she was capable of anything (which he still heartily believed in with a passion deep inside himself), but Draco knew that Hermione Granger was too clever for her own good. 

Cleverer than some no-good mudblood should ever have a right to be. 

Far too interfering and noble and brave and all that other red and gold Gryffindor crap. 

And also too helpful for a devious Slytherin with an exceptionally spluttering plan not to use…

But that didn't mean she needed to have her wand in the process.

Draco jumped to his feet so fast than even _he_ was deeply impressed, which was saying something for someone as amazingly arrogant and self-obsessed as he was. He didn't halt briefly, however, to congratulate himself or pat himself on the back as he usually would have done. There simply wasn't the time just then and this was far too important to jeopardise. Of course, he would award himself with some kind of a present later. Maybe a nice new set of robes. Tight ones. With silver trimming. And maybe with animated snakehead cufflinks… but he would think about that another time.

He turned to sneer at her, his chest rising and falling erratically as his hair hung limply and rather scruffily (Draco furiously noted) over his eyes. Aiming as accurately as he could in half a second, he pointed his wand directly at her hand. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ he yelled, giving Hermione Granger a panting, demented smirk as the wand went flying out of her grasp almost like a bar of slippery soap. They both watched it hurtle through the air, one with satisfaction and the other with horror as it landed neatly into Draco's outstretched hand. His fingers closed around it with a great rushing feeling of contentment, as though the magic within it had shot through his hand and up his arm like a jolt of eclectrisity, or whatever the fuck the muggles called it. Draco was hardly the type of person who gave a Hippogriff's rear about what muggles used to survive. Anything that helped them continue to live and breed was obviously something eviller than even Satan himself could conjure.

Turning to examine the wand, which looked perfectly at ease within his pale hand, Draco's smile grew nastier, his breathing still affected by the spell the ugly beaver had previously thrown at him.

He paused for a moment and reasoned that he probably looked like a lecherous pervert if someone just happened to walk in on the two of them right then. Forcing himself into a girl's bedroom without her knowing, stripping her of her wand, having some strange heavy breathing problem… 

The very thought was quite enough to make him chuckle inanely to himself, just managing to prevent his mirth from trickling over his face as he bit down upon his bottom lip.

Draco seriously doubted, from the very depths of his tiny pool of compassion, that even the extremist of disturbed men could find Granger attractive. He was more than sure that even the blind wouldn't sink _that_ hideously low; after all, repulsiveness simply emanated from her being like a bad smell. But then again, he had it on very good authority that Weasley…

Draco suddenly felt very hot inside, as though a match had been lit within him. 

It was like a fire was erratically licking the inside of his ribcage, leaving burning trails rising up passed his heart, pushing through his windpipe and scorching across his pale cheeks. And his hate for Granger, which he quite sincerely believed was at the very maximum as it was, intensified to a height that almost frightened him.

But of course, it _didn't_ frighten him. _Nothing _frightened Draco Malfoy. He was, after all, the most fearless Malfoy of them all…

It did tick him the fuck off though.

A wand clutched tightly in each of his hands, Draco felt them graze hard against his palms with his fierce grip. 

He clenched his teeth. 

He _had_ to remain in control. 

But, when he thought about it… with two wands he could cause _so _much damage… not even Granger's parents would be able recognise her if he gave into his wants, his brutal, violent little wishes…

Draco usually would be rejoicing at his luck… the girl being trapped so he could hurt her… having not only his wand but also her own so she was completely helpless… 

But right now, it only put him in mind of how much he _couldn't_ jinx her. 

It was just _so_ beyond unfair that he wanted to shriek at someone (preferably a timid terrified-looking Hufflepuff) at the injustice of it all. When would he have a chance like this again? Fate was obviously playing some cruel type of joke on him. 

Fucking fate. 

He hated it to pieces. If it was a person, he hoped they would die of starvation and rot in hell, or worse still, in Gryffindor tower. It was worse than hell ever could be… just look at the hideous colour scheme. That in itself was punishable enough.

And speaking of hideous…

Draco stared impassively at Granger, who was looking shocked and cornered. Her trembling hand slowly made its way back to her side as she clenched her jaw very tight, inhaling hard though her nose and glaring at him, cheeks pink. Draco, still feeling quite self-satisfied and rather neurotic, frowned at her. Fucking Gryffindors. Always having to be so Goddamn brave. God, they were so fucking illogical and stupid – were they intentionally looking for an early death? If Granger didn't watch it, he would blast every ounce of that infuriating courage from her and enjoy it, too, plan or not. Shrugging, Draco lifted his wand up to her face and smiled a very snake-like smile. 

_Well, lets see how long that bravery can last._

"Hello, Granger," said conversationally, his eyes mocking and his breathing steadying. "My, don't you look ravishingly awful today?"

Granger didn't look at him in a furious rage. She didn't start swearing at him. She didn't threaten him with a black eye or a broken nose. She was merely eying him with narrowed, stern eyes, her lips pursed, her gaze darting only occasionally from his own to look at the wand pointed at her in slight trepidation. After a while, her frame soon rose up as she stared at him daringly, almost as though someone had placed a pump into her stomach and inflated her with courage. 

And it was then that Draco suddenly remembered why Granger was the person he always picked on less out of the three 'saviours of Hogwarts'. She didn't fucking react badly to anything he said! The mudblood was always there, talking Potter and Weasley out of trying to pummel him into a pulp. She always bloody ruined his fun, like she was doing just then. 

Why couldn't she either scream for mercy or try and attack him?

Draco really, honest to Slytherin, couldn't ever end up with a girl. Who could? They were grasping, gossiping, over-perfumed little wenches. Thank God he was a complete queen. What was the point in going out with someone if you couldn't grapple with them to exhaustion?

_Stop thinking of Weasley, stop thinking of Weasley… once you go through with the plan, everything will be sorted… So, stop fucking thinking about him, you pathetic needy little fag...!_

Draco growled furiously at the inward slander, focusing on Granger with even more anger than before. Seeing his sudden rise in temper surprised the girl, who stepped back slightly, looking down the length of the wand in his hand with a start.

"You… you had better get out before I scream for help, Malfoy," she said, her voice quivering. Draco, forgetting his fury for a moment, stopped, inclined his head to the side and pursed his lips as he examined her expression closely. 

She knew she was trapped. And she knew he knew she was trapped. 

Just this thought cheered him up and Draco's lips quirked to a smile until he looked almost maddeningly gleeful. He just_ loved _having the upper hand. After all, a person of his name and class deserved nothing lower than getting exactly what they wanted. Especially from someone as worthless and inconsequential as Hermione Granger.

Raising his wand higher, he tauntingly circled the tip of it between her eyes, watching her eyeballs twitch fearfully as they followed it and forcing himself not to get carried away and poke her _accidentally_ in the eye. He then raised the girl's wand, which he still had clutched in his other hand. With a steely look, he pointed it at the ceiling.

"Silencio," he said through a smirk, staring hard at her just so she could feel the impact of his control and her helplessness. He greatly enjoyed doing things like that. It made him feel better in an abnormally vindictive way, being the sick bastard he knew he was.

Gazing up, he saw the blue sparks he had aimed above spread warmly, tingling, glittering and shushing across the entire span of the ceiling and trickling down the walls like stars in melted wax. He smiled serenely. "You were saying?" 

But Granger wasn't admitting defeat just yet. The anxious girl suddenly looked determined. 

Draco blinked.

"_Accio wand!" _she yelled, holding out her hand and focusing on her wand with every ounce of concentration she could rally without bursting a blood vessel. 

He felt the wood wiggle in his hand but held on tight, snapping his head up to glare furiously at her, eyes practically bulging out of his head as if she were a disobedient pet.

Wandless magic… she could do _wandless magic! _The stupid bitch could do something he couldn't! Albeit, weak wandless magic but nevertheless operational! He could not… he _would not_ allow this to go on a minute longer! His very dignity wouldn't allow it!

"Bindus!" he shrieked angrily, thin, vine-like cords whipping fast out his own wand and snaking themselves around and around her like a hungry serpent. He watched her fall to her knees, trying to squirm free furiously and pull frantically at the cords wrapping about her neck, gasping.

Draco, panting himself in sheer fury, felt no pity as he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. He stood over her, looking down his pointed nose at the struggling girl and crossed his arms over his heaving chest. 

"Try any of that shit on me again, Granger, and the next words I say to you will be 'Crucio'," he hissed in out-of-breath maliciousness. Then, mulling over the words he just uttered, Draco surprised himself by realising he was actually telling the complete truth. Hmmm… he did wonder about himself sometimes… 

Shaking his head, he continued in his soft, patronising little voice. He was _so _good at it, after all.

"Now, you remain on the dirt-covered ground like all good mudbloods should while I talk. Understand? Oh, and do raise your hand if you'd like me to repeat or clarify something." 

Draco smiled as he looked at her arms, firmly rooted at her sides by the ropes. 

All right, maybe the ground wasn't very dirty. It was probably bordering more on pristinely clean than dirty, to be honest, considering those damn house elves were such fucking perfectionists. In fact, the Slytherin dungeons weren't ever this clean… that bastard Dobby. After years of having to deal with the psycho, of letting him live at the manor and serve the most noble family in the Wizarding World… this was his thanks?! 

Still trying to vigorously wriggle free, the captive girl hissed up at him like a whistling kettle, her apprehension seeming to Disapparate.

"Let. Me. Go," she growled, enunciating every word clearly, her eyes closed so thin in anger that they looked completely shut. "I don't know what your game is, Malfoy. I don't even know how you got here since you were expelled… but just because Harry and Ron are… are gone doesn't mean I can't deal with you alone." Her voice dropped as she skipped over the word 'dead', her eyes averting from the Malfoy's gaze before rising agitatedly to glare up at him again, as though daring him to laugh. Draco himself decided to pretend she hadn't said the 'R' word at all and instead smiled pleasantly at her.

"Ahhh, how quaint you are, Granger… but alas, I'll have to reject your _persuasive_ argument. How am I to know that you'll behave? No, I think animals such as yourself need to be bundled up, taken away and caged. Animals that don't belong in the same breathing space as us wizards…"

Granger glared at him from the floor, covered from neck to knees in coils of cord as Draco moved gracefully over to easily pick up the letter lying discarded on the floor. 

"Don't you touch that, Malfoy," she warned, her voice hitching with emotion as soon as his fingers graced the paper. Taken aback by her tone, he looked at her, his back bent, his fingers barely meeting the letter and their heads on the same level. Their was an odd type of fire in her eyes and Draco suddenly had the frivolous desire to set the thing alight and dance in the flames, right in front of her. However, he didn't. He picked it up, straightened up and raised an eyebrow, skimming through the letter and making a face. 

Potter's handwriting was atrocious, it really was. And his grammar! What was this boy, raised by wolves? 

Draco shook his head, tutting. 

This really was an absolutely perfect example of what growing up with muggles did to a wizard – it made them a total idiotic prick. Then again, Granger being a mudblood and a clever one at that was completely contrary to his argument. So he chose to simply pay no heed to that fact and carry on reading.

The girl was looking at him warily and her breathing was totally out of steady time, her eyes terrified that he might just spontaneously begin to tear the parchment up, stuff the pieces into his mouth and then swallow just for the maliciousness of it. So, Draco pretty much decided on doing what most intelligent and inordinately sexy people would have done in his place. He clutched the paper callously into his fist and felt it scrunch considerably under his fingers before opening up his hand again.

Would you look at that? He had accidentally creased the thing. How had that happened?

What a shame.

He smiled down at Granger and was sure that had she had her wand, he would not still be alive, let alone still standing.

Not that the little bitch could beat him in a duel or anything, because that was just plain absurdity at its best.

However, she was looking more apprehensive than angry and kept shooting her eyes to the parchment as though she were absolutely terrified of losing it. Draco narrowed his own grey eyes suspiciously. Now what the fuck was all that about? Why was the little mudblood acting like this? It was almost like she had never read the thing or something…

And then it hit him like a herd of insulted Hippogriffs.

She hadn't finished it. 

He was a fast reader and knowing a sap like Granger, she was probably drinking in every word and trying to over analyse them. And of course she hadn't finished it! She would have reacted more at seeing him when she first realised he was in her room, especially after that (bastard) Potter's declaration…!

Which also meant another thing. 

She didn't know about him and Weasley. 

She was still in the dark about it all. She didn't know that he, Draco V. Malfoy, one of the people she hated the most in the world, had been screwing the boy she liked.

An incredibly nasty smile twisted upon his mouth, making his usually attractive features look peculiarly wrong on his face. 

"Well, well, well…" he said softly, his teeth clamped down on his lip to stop an almost giggling sound escaping him. After all, he would rather bite his bottom lip clean off his face before ever allowing himself to giggle in public. Making sure his laugh was firmly placed tickling inside his throat, he looked back down at Granger, who was darting her eyes from him to the letter and back again. When they fell on him, Draco let out a cruel little chuckle and dropped his eyes back to the parchment in his hand, smoothing it out so he could read.

_…there are certain things you really need to know about Ron and prat we know as Draco Malfoy…_

Well, she should _at least_ hear it from the snake's own mouth…

"Do you want me to tell you what the rest of Potter's letter says, huh, Granger?" Draco asked, turning to her with his cold eyes dancing like an identical pair of colourless flames.

To Draco's delight, the Gryffindor prefect opened her mouth before shutting it closed again. She seemed to be in conflict with herself. To ask or not to ask... either way, it confirmed one thing…

She hadn't a clue. 

Although after seeing Draco's highly cocky smile, she slowly began looking distrustful again.

"Anything that comes out of your mouth will be a lie, Malfoy," she said strongly, as though reminding herself of this fact and raised her eyebrows up at him defiantly, almost to prove how little she believed him.

Draco's grin broadened as he shook his head softly. She really was amusing without having the slightest hint of a sense of humour; it was astonishing.

"God, mudblood, didn't you ever wonder why Weasley hadn't asked you out?" he asked, sniggering. "I mean, you may be dog-ugly but you're not as stupid as you look. Didn't it ever feel like Weasel was hiding something from you? That him _and _Potter were hiding something from you…?"

After looking primarily confused, her wet eyes slowly widened. She looked absolutely aghast, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. Draco, smiling triumphantly to himself at hurting her quite effectively with his words, found his expression slowly vanishing into one of severe irritation as he stopped and realised what she was probably thinking. 

Ahhh shit. 

For Bertie Botts sake, why was he always surrounded by morons?! Even the smarter people were absolute idiots compared to him!

That stupid slow-witted heifer… thinking that her two best friends were the ones who were… who were… That brainless bitch! As if Potter could ever steal what rightfully belonged to a Malfoy! 

He swore foully and looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. Mudbloods, honestly! He didn't know why he even bothered. He'd just have to be frank with the mutant.

"Don't be so fucking stupid, Granger," he snapped, his hands making their way in annoyance to his hips in an uncanny impression of a scolding parent. "Potter's not only a hideous looking twat, yes, hideous _and_ lacking a personality to boot, but he's an incredibly straight one at that." 

Granger, still looking pale and stunned in her incarceration on the floor, looked even more wide-eyed, gazing up at him like a scared, lost child.

"I… but Ron…?" she managed to weakly utter, her words running into one another in her uncertainty.

Draco leaned down, his face a fraction of an inch from hers and found himself smiling widely in complete spite at the mortified girl, his white teeth shining with the sunlight that was glaring from the window. Puffy eyes, crazy hair, blotchy, tear-streaked skin… she was hardly any better up close. It only made this whole ordeal more fun.

" _'Ron'_ is a shit-shifting fag, yes," said Draco, articulating each word clearly through a malevolent laugh. Slowly straightening his frame back up, he gazed down to appreciate her appearance of distress properly. Still holding his wand, he ran his hand through his platinum hair, letting his blond strands and the glittering sparks from his wand fall gently around his eyes at their own accord, his grin only growing more evil. "And seeing that I fucked him, Granger, Iknow _exactly_ how much of a shit-shifter he really was."

There was a profound silence. 

Not a single noise seemed to sound with his declaration. Even the birds outside had gone mute. But after a while of looking as though her face was permanently stuck on her horrified expression, the muggle-born began shaking her head slowly, looking at him with shaky mistrust.

"You're… you're lying," she tried to say firmly, although her pale lips quivered and her expression very much betrayed her misgivings. "He... he wouldn't. He just wouldn't. Ron wouldn't ever even consider...  What… what sort of game are you playing, Malfoy? D-do you honestly expect me to believe that you and Ron were... were… No. _No._ He wouldn't. He wouldn't even touch you…"

Draco let out a bark of laughter. This was a lot more fun than he thought it would be.

"Oh trust me, Granger," he said, unable to control his grin from spreading even wider, "we did a lot more than touching. I can guarantee that much. Why don't you read for yourself?" He picked up the letter, nonchalantly charming the parchment and holding his wand up so it hovered towards her then stopped to drift afloat before the girl's eyes. Granger eagerly leaned forward in her binds, the ropes cutting into her, reading each unread word hungrily with a pained expression on her face, pleading furiously to the Gods that it was all not true… 

Draco bit his lip from smiling naughtily. This was almost too delicious for words.

When the mudblood finally finished, she slowly wilted back, like a dying flower. The girl blinked uncontrollably, looking up at the blond with an utterly helpless gaze.

"I-I don't understand…"

Draco let out an annoyed puff of air, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. What the fuck did he have to do, conjure a redheaded dummy and demonstrate buggery from every angle with it? 

Lowering himself down to sit on the end of her bed, Draco sighed a heavy sigh and, with a cantankerous flick of his wand, the letter stopped fighting gravity and glided gently back to the ground. 

He was sick of trying to explain things. He had given her ample resources and explanations but the dumb bitch still didn't accept it. 

And _why_ did he have to prove that he got Weasley into bed with him? Wasn't witnessing the Malfoy's spectacular looks enough to establish that it was more than possible? That he could have anyone if he put his mind to it? That Weasley was at his feet, practically begging for it?

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, raising a sharp blond eyebrow and scowling audibly.

"Come on, Granger. I may hate your guts but you've got a reasonably able brain in that massive head of yours. Weasley and I were together. We fucked, we screwed, we shagged and all those other nasty little words for trysting. For once I'm not in the mood to list them all. Why else would Potter mention it? Why would the sanctimonious little shit lie to you, hmmm?"

For the first time in his entire life, Draco found himself thanking Potter for being an interfering prick. Granger could easily denounce the his word and happily not believe any of it but Potter… her _best_ friend… confirming the horrible, awful truth that the Slytherin was mockingly telling her… it was like the icing on the cake. Especially since Draco knew something about her supposed best friend's secrets, something _huge_, that she didn't. He could see right before him how much it hurt that no one had told her this before and by fuck was he enjoying the show.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Draco watched her slowly metamorphosing features with shrewd, astute eyes. The avid denial and shaking head were visibly disappearing, the looks of absolute shock then nausea came and went and now she was biting her bottom lip, furious, stunned tears in her eyes and wearing a look so sad, so betrayed and beseeching at the floor that Draco could feel the air around him chill and dampen. She then lifted her head up at him, a tear dropping to her cheek and streaking its way down. Draco found himself physically leaning forward on his seat on the bed to grasp her every broken-hearted word.

"Why… why didn't they tell me?" she whispered softly, her voice catching through both her tears and her wavering breathing. She seemed to be asking herself the question more than him, her wide brown eyes now streaming uncontrollably and her head shaking side to side with the slow, agonising comprehension. "I… I don't understand… We… we told each other everything..."

"Well, that's obviously not fucking true, is it, Granger?" Draco said with a snort, turning his head to stare offhandedly out the window at the Hufflepuff Team practicing Quidditch outside. He would rather watch that whiny idiot Zacharias Smith twirling and parading about his broomstick like a ninny than watch the girl before him blubbering. It made him feel uncomfortable. He fucking hated people crying anywhere near him. In his opinion, all those wimpy little fuckers should be put on an island somewhere and left there without food or water.

Now, don't get him wrong, this did not mean that the he didn't like seeing people's pain. Because he did. Oh yes. In abundance actually. However, it was as soon as they got to that inconsolable point that he suddenly felt disgusted. 

Because crying, _snivelling_ like that, was for the weak. 

It was one of the many things Lucius had drilled into him ever since he was a child, probably as soon as he was born. Draco snorted as he imagined being yanked out of his mother by a mediwizard, crying and screaming at the top of his lungs before being rapped on the head by his father's cane and shutting up straight away. 

It brought Draco to mind of when he was seven years of old, on that one day when he realised that he didn't miss bawling his eyes out anymore. In fact, that long-forgotten feeling of the back of his eyeballs prickling had only resurfaced that day he and Weasley finally…

"…you didn't deserve him."

The sudden noise made Draco start.

Completely forgetting that Granger was still in the room with him, he blinked out of his glazed expression. He then stared at her, confusion and anger etched onto his pointed features… after all, she had cut his imagination off on a very pleasing image

"What?" he snapped, still feeling slightly distracted as his attention wavered to the cheering outside the window. Maybe Smith had fallen off his broom and landed on his head…

"You… you didn't deserve Ron…" 

Noting the particularly gritty undertone to her words, Draco turned back slowly to look incredulously at her audacity. Her body was quivering in anger on the floor and her new set of welled tears was streaking down her cheeks. Her streaming eyes bore into his. 

"He was good, and kind and sweet and loyal and you… I… I don't know how you forced him, Malfoy, but… you're just… you're just…" 

There was no way that Draco was going to wait to hear exactly what that know-it-all thought he was.  
  
He rose from the bed like a shot, his narrowed eyes fixed on her fiercely. He wasn't about to have some little Mudblood prefect bitch even attempt to slander him, let alone say it out loud. And that little bitch knew nothing – _nothing!_

Force Weasley!? Like he didn't have the redhead eating out of his hand, pining after him, following him around like a lovesick puppy…!

Granger followed his sudden jump with her eyes, looking wary and shocked as he approached her menacingly and afraid the boy was going to strike her. He sneered nastily as he watched her obvious distress, like a hunter advancing their prey; her roped body shifting back anxiously until it hit the wall and as far away from his towering shadow as she could get. He took a second to note the girl's watery eyes. Her completely hurt looking and _betrayed_ watery eyes.

He stopped walking, appraising her with his eyes. She really was pathetic.

"Go on, Mudblood, what am I, pray tell?" he spoke softly, smiling thinly as he crossed his arms fluidly and raised a brow in question. "Evil incarnate? Oh, and by the way, you forgot to add 'fucks like a rabbit' to Weasley's list of assets. Be sure to put it at the top, won't you?" 

He chuckled maliciously at the look on her face. Her teary eyes were wide, face flushed, lip trembling… She looked like he had slapped her just after making her cry. Draco snorted. What a crazy assumption for anyone to make. Like he would even touch the filthy bitch. 

With his lips twisting into a vicious smirk, he raised a graceful hand to flick his platinum hair from his eyes, feigning surprise. 

"Oh, sorry! I apologise, you'd know nothing about Weasley 'fucking', would you?" He laughed vindictively. "Sad, isn't it, Granger? He'd rather have his worst _male _enemy then look at your repulsive self twice." Clearly quite incredibly amused with himself for getting to Weasley before the girl could, Draco chortled. He wasn't about to have some Mudblood's leftovers, after all.

Granger, quite pink-faced and visibly stung by his barb, pressed her pale lips together, her eyes horribly puffy and bloodshot.

"Get _out_, Malfoy," she hissed. "Just leave. You've done what you came here to do – hurt me even more. Well done. You were successful.  So just _go_."

Draco let out a bark of laughter. Like he was going to take orders from someone like her. Like he took orders from _anyone _but himself_. _And even then, he sometimes overruled his own opinions, too.

"Well, aren't we ever the egotist, Granger?" he asked, amused. "Strange considering you're so ugly. Do you really, _honestly_, think I came all this way just to pick on you? Trust me, you mean nothing to me."

She didn't look at him with an affronted expression. In fact, the muggle-born eyed him with sudden suspicion, not even heeding or caring that he had just insulted her looks. Her breathing still ragged, she stared at him with distrust, her eyes following Draco as he stood up to walk about her room.

"Then why _are_ you here?"

Idly thumbing through the pieces of parchment stacked haphazardly on her bedside table, Draco ignored her question and snorted. He then tsked as he pulled out a random piece of scrap paper that lay wedged between the _Advanced Book of Medicinal Concoctions_ _and_ _Remedies _and_ Potion, Not Poison _by Brewyn Linctus. He grinned.

"God, Granger, don't you know _anything?_ Absolutely everyone knows that Gobbernishank root is used as a sexual stimulant, not a laxative. A virginal little prude such as yourself got befuddled by the word 'sexual', hmmm?"

She narrowed her eyes, angrily exhaling out her nose like a dragon that had been poked in the eye. It was one thing to insult her looks but it was quite another to slight her intelligence. She practically spat her next words out like an irate talking textbook, every word clear as day.

"Taken in excess, the concentrated ingredients in the root eventually inflict the user with bowel problems such as incontinence, chronic diarrhoea and, in males, ultimately instigating impotence." 

Still holding the paper in his hand, Draco turned to look at her in amazement.  

"Is that shit true?" he asked in incredulity before he could stop himself, reminding himself to never _ever_ take any Gobbernishank root again. Impotence? No fucking _way_ was he getting that…

"Yes," she answered savagely, and quite a bit triumphantly. "Now why the _hell_ are you here?"

Draco blinked.

"Well, aren't you the feisty one, Granger?" he asked, his expression slowly twisting to one that was not wholly welcoming. "However, unlike most idiotic straight men, I don't like it, so desist before I reunite you with your dead friends."

He had done it. He had hit her hard on her weak spot. Any minute now, the little bitch would start blubbering again. And lo and behold, looking down, Draco could see the tears beginning to well in her brown eyes. So fucking predictable. If he had a knut for every bloody tear that girl squeezed out…

"You're… you're evil," she stated shakily, as though she could hardly believe how ghastly the boy before her really was. "Pure, _foul_ evil." 

She was shaking her head, staring at him with complete disgust and shock at how someone could turn out the way he had.

Draco found this to be an incredible compliment. And looked down at his nails, feigning a thorough inspection of them with his eyes.

Enough beating about the fairy bush. This had gone on long enough. 

Dropping his hand to his side, Draco knelt down in front of her, causing the girl to shift back on instinct. He grinned at the frightened look on her face, which appeared, with his mere proximity. It really was great to be him sometimes. Trying to stop his face from looking so manic, he bit upon his lip again, and stared at her pensively. After a while of sizing her up, he finally spoke. 

"Tell me, Granger," he said, reducing his voice to a dangerous, deadly serious purr, "what do you know about the La Contati Curse?"

There was a significant pause. Then it was the girl's turn to look confused.

"La Contati …?"

"It's more commonly known in English as the Revival spell, the Rebirth curse, if you will…" Draco said impatiently, waving his hand and ignoring her inquiry. "I, personally, have only ever heard of it as the Resurrection spell. It was a curse originally patented and formed a couple of thousand years ago by a group of Latin Necromancers without Wizengamot approval to formulate and produce spells…"

Hermione Granger was sitting up as high as her knees would allow her to sit, her eyes wide and attentive as she always was when she was learning something new in class. She seemed to be drinking in his words and Draco could have sworn her enormous head got even bigger with his information. It was almost unnerving… no one ever paid such great, oddly devoted attention to him… To be honest, most people didn't understand a word he said when went on an intellectual rant… besides, who the fuck else would care about a bunch of dead foreign Seers but someone like Granger?

"…Resurrection?" she breathed, all her anger slowly dissolving and replaced with both disbelief and not just a tiny amount of hope. She was shaking her head, hardly daring to believe him. "Malfoy… that… that can't mean… But… it's not possible! There's no such spell! It's common knowledge that you can't cheat death… every book confirms it!"

"Well, you've not read every fucking book then, have you?" Draco sneered, irritated that she was doubting his absolutely impeccable word. He crossed his arms, his face stone serious as he glared down at her. "Because trust me, Granger, I know for a fact that this spell exists. And, yes, before you even dare to try and doubt my word, I know for a fucking _fact_ that it _can_ bring back the dead."

* * *

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_Go on, it'd make me happy! :D_


	5. Chapter 4 A Library Visit

**_A/N:_**_ Happy Christmas – err, belated Christmas to one and all! :D I hope you all had a lovely day and, as a pressie from me, I tried my damndest to get this out in December at least – I really hope you'll all forgive my disgustingly appalling tardiness. I guess you all thought I had given this up for dead. :) I suppose I thought I had as well. But, I swear, it will be finished! I will do it! :D I promise! _

_Dedicated to my Manu, especially, for being such a bootiful beta for everything! Oh, and my darling Lizzie for being the best mate ever. And of course, my wonderful Claire-y muse – love you, hons! :P_

_Enjoy! Please, please review, I can't breathe without reviews! :)_

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Draco Malfoy**

If this was a staring match, Draco had not been previously informed. However, since Hermione Granger was gawking at him in such a lengthy, grating and fucking irritating way, he found his eyelids forcing themselves wide open without his even knowing. 

Which, evidently, pissed him the hell off because he prided himself in knowing everything. Which, of course, he _did._

However, in the Malfoy's defence, this act of paranoia would prevent any chance of her outperforming him, even if it was a simple competition determining which of their eyelids were the mightier (his, _obviously_). To own truth, Draco was almost positive that this was probably just a simple vacant and retarded look on her behalf but there was no bloody way that he was going to allow that pathetic little bint to beat him, in _anything_. He refused – completely and utterly _refused_ – to allow himself to take the risk.

And no, before any of you dare to think it, it was _not_ fucking petty. 

Luckily for the storyline of this particular tale, the girl did eventually decide to snap out of it, with Draco debating that perhaps it was his marvellous looks that had probably, and quite reasonably, initially stunned the girl. Which was entirely plausible. After all, his reflection made even _him _speechless at times…  

But now he was getting caught up in himself yet again. And, for once, Draco wasn't allowing it. Now wasn't the time to permit himself to get distracted by… well_, himself, _no matter how strong the temptation was. Or how criminally magnificent he was. Or how evilly charming he acted. Or how shiny and soft his hair looked. 

He _had_ to focus on Granger. 

He actually had to listen to the annoying little mudblood and pay attention to her. She might say something important, however incredibly fucking unlikely that seemed.

Draco snorted quite incredibly coarsely at the thought, the noise sounding rather peculiar articulated in his usually smooth, refined tone of voice. 

How the mighty had fallen. How the beautiful had been scarred. How the evil had been redeemed. How the sexy had been… well, you get the idea.

Who would have ever thought that he would choose her, _that thing_, over himself? Even his own mind was fighting it… and fight it his mind fucking well should! At least _that_ was still as rational as ever. After all… _honestly_. Entertaining a mudblood? Beseeching the help of someone who was so clearly below him that Draco barely knew how to converse with the thing? By the powers of Grindelwald, was the boy _really_ seeking the assistance of a girl who made him want to scour every inch of his glorious body clean of her germs? He could practically _see_ hungry ticks leaping eagerly off her, trying their damndest to contaminate him. 

Like he'd ever bloody let them.

It was pathetic, really. Even Granger's best friend would have rather shagged him instead of her, and the whole school had thought that they were going to marry after N.E.W.T year and have a litter of ginger, frizzy-haired pups.

The thought alone made Draco want to be physically sick. 

After all, some things were far too depraved to find funny. And Weasley and Granger having wild sex just happened to be one of them. In fact, in Draco's ever-right opinion, it was on the top of the list, right after Potter's general survival...

"I… I don't believe it…"

Granger's soft voice somehow managed to reverberate around the gaudily red room and, of course, sliced right through Draco's train of thought.

And no one in the fucking world was allowed to do that.

He turned to glower dangerously at the girl. 

How dare she have the gall to talk when he was thinking of thoroughly unimportant things? Who the hell did she think she was? Himor something?  

Draco stifled a growl, every neurone in his mind forcing him to listen to her. Fucking neurones. What the hell did they know? And what the fuck _were_ neurones anyway?

Draco contemplated this for a second before realising such thoughts were unbecoming for a Malfoy. Ugly people with nothing but an Incendio Charm to keep them warm on a cold winter's night thought about such trivial matters. 

Poor, ugly people to boot and -

Fuck, was Granger _still_ talking? Would this girl ever shut up? It was a wonder she hadn't been killed yet. 

"It's… it's unfeasible, Malfoy!" the mudblood carried on, shaking her head doggedly. Draco stared at her rather blankly. He had a feeling that, had he not tied her up, she would be gesticulating madly with her hands. 

Thank fuck he had. 

"How can anyone else have not heard of this… this _'Resurrection spell'_?" the girl continued sceptically, forehead creased and slowly scuttling herself forward on her knees. Draco immediately jumped back from the threat of proximity, the backs of his knees hitting against one of those garish mahogany-framed Gryffindor beds. He somehow managed to balance and catch himself from falling back, just as her face turned earnest. "How can this spell _not_ be in public consciousness, Malfoy? It's… it's a colossal discovery. You couldn't possibly keep a method of immortality secret… Even the Philosopher's Stone, guarded as it was, was still publicised by textbooks and the media… No… _no_, you must have heard wrong, Malfoy. It just… it just _couldn't_ be."

Draco felt himself writhing from within as though his intestines were made of slithering eels, his jaw clenched so hard that one would think he was trying to intentionally shatter it to pieces. His toes curled inside his expensive designer shoes.

Oh, for fuck's sake. 

_Why_ didn't anyone understand that Malfoys, especially those who happened to be christened Draco, were infallible and never, _ever_ wrong?! How dare she even _question,_ even subtly _hint,_ that he might be mistaken!? When in the history of the world was he _ever_ mistaken?! 

In case you were wondering - _never_, that's when! 

Well, he wasn't going to stand for this insult. 

He would rather dress like that fashion victim Lovegood – radish earrings and everything - than ever allow a slight on his character by a muggle-born… especially one as uncultured as the girl in front of him.

"Don't fucking patronise me," Draco snarled, tempted to spell the ropes so tight around her that they would cut right through to the mudblood bone. He stepped forward, almost stepping on the Granger's lap before she moved back, just in time for his foot to pin the tip of her pleated skirt to the ground. Clammy fingers loosening and tightening around his wand yet again, Draco barely managed to control his limbs from throwing some nasty hex at the girl. He bent his back, elbow rested on his front knee and face fiercely glaring into hers. "I'm not as incredibly dim as your usual company, Granger, so don't bother trying to wriggle-free to draw me a diagram of the alphabet. Unlike Potter, I catch on relatively quickly, _so watch it_. Now, when exactly did I even _mention_ immortality, you stupid mudblood? And before you start going on about how your righteous, muggle-loving government would never conceal and discontinue research on such a – what the hell did you say again? 'Colossal discovery' of a curse? – you had better start thinking again."

Draco, who had pulled himself up to his full frame, walked up and down the now rather worn stretch of floor in front of Granger in a rather repetitive and dizzying manner. He then stopped and lowered his eyelids to haughtily look down upon her. He was thoroughly unimpressed.

The victim façade really did not work on her. 

Innocent, wide eyes. _Please._ That look only ever came off on Weasley and probably only ever would. It merely helped make Granger look even more unattractive to him, something Draco had been convinced was an impossibility and…

Bugger. 

She was staring at him like _that_ again. 

With a sort of curious gaze and an expression that hinted that more than one wheel was turning within her oversized head. 

Draco caught himself before he let out a childish puff of air. 

He bloody _hated_ that look. Considering the millions of repulsive facial expressions the girl could make, Draco was quite sure that this one was his least favourite by far. 

_He _was the smart one, dammit_. _It wasn't fucking fair that the size of Granger's head gave her such an intellectual advantage. After all, the girl's brain _had_ to be big to have to fit in that thing. 

And, as Draco had always noted, size was _everything._

Stupidly smart Granger. He hated her with an ardent passion. 

"You… you act like this is one giant government conspiracy, Malfoy," said the stupidly smart girl, a cynical smile twittering off and on her flustered face as though she was trying to force herself to make light of the situation. It didn't look as though it was working. "I mean… well, why _wouldn't_ the Ministry inform us of such a… such a _revolutionary_ spell? Being able to bestow the gift of life? Never having to worry about death again? Surely they'd publish a report or review, for the good of magic and science…" 

"Are you _really_ as idiotic as the absolute manticore manure you sprout out?" Draco suddenly asked in an almost conversational tone to shut her up, causing the girl to blink in surprise. She then glared, two spots of heat growing on her cheeks. 

She really did have just as big a problem with people doubting her intelligence as Draco did. Draco thought of this as incredibly funny for some inane reason and found himself leaning forward again, smiling a slimily steely smile. 

"I know it might be a new experience but why don't you burn the few brain cells you have and just try_ thinking_ about it, Granger, hmmm? But be sure not to hurt yourself in the process though. I really would be _ever so sad_ if you were to tragically die from brain failure."

Draco smirked, more than mildly proud of himself – nothing unusual about that.

Granger actually huffed in response. 

"Well, Malfoy, if you're so clever, why don't you enlighten me about this conspiracy theory?" she suddenly snapped rather bitterly, unable to hide the fact that she really was interested in his words. Unable to conceal that she _wanted _to know everything he had to tell her. And, when Draco mused on it, of course she did – she was vaguely intelligent, after all.

However, her tone was simply unacceptable. Not even the Minster of Magic could speak to him with such a fucking attitude. And especially with such a stupid request. 

Why did she just_ not _get it? It wasn't exactly difficult. Merlin, even Crabbe and Goyle didn't need this much work… 

Wait… scrap that, they did. 

"There's no bloody 'conspiracy theory', you brainless heathen," he spat out in a thoroughly irritated voice, rolling his colourless eyes, his hands loosely on his hips. "Population problems… Over-crowding, for fuck's sake! People resurrecting one another left, right and centre… it'd be a threat to Wizarding security. No one dying? The Ministry having to keep tabs on thousands, even millions of wizards? Can't even _you_ imagine the chaos, mudblood? The muggles, stupid and dense and utterly pathetic as they are, would easily discover us. We'd have _nowhere_ to hide from them."

The girl didn't say anything straight away. She was looking at him quietly, her lips puckered peculiarly in an impression of deep thought. Yes, _'impression'_. Draco would personally prefer to believe that the girl faked all that thinking. Because, seriously now, who the fuck would bother? 

Honest to Voldemort, how the hell did Weasley put up with her _and_ Potter? Draco truly believed that allowing the redhead to spend even the slightest bit of time with him was probably the kindest thing anyone had ever done for the Weasley. He deserved a fucking medal. The first Malfoy to be charitable to the poor – he at least deserved some money just for that. A moralistic old nut like Dumbledore would simply lap that up.

Still looking rather meditative, Granger slowly began to speak.

"How can you possibly know all this, Malfoy?"

Draco grunted in disbelief. A stupid question if ever he heard one. He did know everything, after all.

"I'm _Draco Malfoy_, Granger," he said, then slowly eased himself into a smile. He forgot how much he enjoyed reminding himself of that fact. It just rolled so nicely off one's tongue. "I was a mini Death Eater in the making, for hell's sake. Do you have any idea how unhealthily obsessed with death the Dark Lord is? He's a total paranoid, delusional freak. We had a whole wing devoted to researching methods of immortality. You people haven't the faintest idea, as usual, how many leading Necromancers are Death Eaters. It's almost a necessary club to join in that field. And trust me, all the big names in that line of work? _Death Eaters_. Someone as dense as you has absolutely no clue whatsoever about how far our power goes."

There was a grave pause before Granger suddenly said,

_"Our?" _

A dangerous, prickly expression was slowly appearing on her face and lines of anger furrowed their way onto her forehead.

Draco smiled cruelly down at her. Oh, he knew _exactly_ what she was thinking. So, in light of this, he leaned further, his smile growing more and more ruthless. 

"Yes, Granger, '_our'_. I _love_ the Dark Lord, don't you know. I've devoted my life to the snake-faced lunatic.HailVoldemort! I'm even carrying his child…"

"That's… that's not funny," she hissed shakily, catching the sarcasm heavily weighing down his words.

"Of course it is – _I_ said it," Draco quipped back a half-second afterwards. And then, without further ado, "Now, what do you say?"

Looking quite initially thrown by his sudden prompting, Hermione Granger soon found herself gazing at the boy in fairly polite inquisitiveness.

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?"

Draco groaned, almost throwing himself against one of the four posts of the bed behind him, his back hitting the wood in exasperated anger. He felt the bed vibrate.

Exactly how fucking long was this going to take? 

The sky outside was already beginning to darken, the sunlight melting into the clouds with an annoying happy orange glow as it filtered its way through the window. Evening was well on its way and the girl was _still _as ignorant as she was when he first arrived. 

Was Draco really going to have stand here, explaining this, for the rest of his natural-born life? Would he be as old and ugly as Dumbledore by the time realisation finally surfaced on her face? 

Well, definitely not as ugly – that one thing was for sure.

The Slytherin boy curled his bottom lip so it resembled a rather fetching pout. A rather fetching and extremely hacked off pout.

"Dense cow, are you going to fucking help me or not?"

Thank the Lord and all his fat, repulsive little cherubs - she _finally_ looked as though she vaguely understood what language he was speaking in. 

Granger's eyelashes fluttered, a stunned look shining beneath them.

"… Malfoy… are you… are you suggesting that we… we bring Ron and Harry back?"

And we have progress.

"I never _suggest_ a thing, mudblood, I fucking tell things how they are." Draco spat back, flicking his hair irritably out of his eyes yet again. Stupid fucking hair. If it didn't look so damn sexy around his face… "And who the heck said anything about Potter? I'm more than happy, delighted, in fact, for him to stay exactly where he is."

_"Malfoy…"_ Granger warned, her fists visibly clenching from underneath the coils of cord. Draco spun his head so fast to glare at her that his vision momentarily blurred.__

"What?!" he snapped angrily, feeling incredibly agitated. Who the hell did she imagine she was? He felt no pity for Potter and he wasn't about to have some female of a Gryffindor make him feel guilty about leaving him to snuggle in his coffin forever. Damn, just the _thought_ of Potter's coffin made him feel warm and cosy inside. "He's doing us all a favour being six feet under, mudblood. I thought you were all self-righteous and sacrificing – don't you _want_ the world to remain a better place?"

Draco smiled at her with a look so innocent and sweet that it looked evil. Which was exactly his intention. 

Granger's face was absolutely stone set. She was glaring at him and looking quite calm considering the situation she had found herself within. Tied up in her own room and being threatened by her worst enemy. Yes, she was doing remarkably well when one really was bothered to think about it. 

She pressed her chapped lips together.

"Considering this spell works… supposing this spell even _exists_, Malfoy…" she said, still sounding doubtfulenough to make Draco sneer,"…I am_ not _helping you unless you swear – unless you _promise_ – to bring Harry back as well."

That. Little. Bitch.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. He was exhaling through his nose, his sharp intakes of breath burning the hairs in his nostrils.

Think. He had to fucking think. Because there was no way – no fucking way in the world – that she was going to outclass him. That she was going to get him to agree to Potter coming back.

He could taste blood on his teeth. 

Running his tongue over the stinging new sore on his gum, Draco took his time, waiting for the blood pounding angrily at the back of his eyeballs to cease.

"Arrogant little mudblood, aren't you?" he finally drawled, attempting to sound as cool as he could – which was very cool if one had had as much training as the Malfoy had. "You assume I need you that much. I'm a _Malfoy_, Granger. I don't need anyone. Especially a dirty-blooded excuse for a witch like you."

Granger let out a surprising snort of a laugh. Draco was, extraordinarily enough, busy watching her with almost morbid curiosity to find the strength or inspiration to either insult or halt her.

"_I know you_, Malfoy, despite how much you'd like to refute that fact," the girl said, a bitter, almost uneasily smug, smile on her face. Draco wanted to slap it into the next world then trod on it over and over again.

_No one _could read him – especially her. 

However, his death glare didn't deter her from talking. In fact, it seemed to inspire her even more. She lifted her chin, although her nerves leaked their way into her voice.

"You… you would never have 'debased' and 'lowered' yourself enough to ask for a common muggle-born's help unless you _really_ needed it, Malfoy." 

That slut. 

That cow. 

That stupid little fuck.

Damn her – damn her straight to Voldemort's clutches! Damn her for thinking she could smile at him! Damn her for attempting to give him cheek…! 

And damn her for being so damnably right.

He stared at her so intensely his eyeballs twitched and felt as though they would pop out if he applied any more pressure. But they wouldn't. He wouldn't. He wasn't about to lose his temper over her. No fucking way.

Alright, he might have been slightly – _slightly_ – peeved but it had nothing to do with her. He was just… on the male equivalent of a period or something.

Draco lifted his own aristocratic chin to match hers, trying his hardest to smirk lewdly. 

"Want _Potter_ back, do you?" Draco asked, with a far more chipper disposition. "Missing your shagging partner, eh, Granger?" 

Granger flushed, glaring at the platinum blond, who was currently grinning at her like a type of parody of the Cheshire Cat. 

"Wait, did I _really_ just say 'shagging partner?" Draco suddenly said, feigning bewilderment as he over-exaggerated his tone of voice, smacking his hand on his forehead in a gesture of awe. Slowly lowering his arm, he let out a low, spiteful snicker. "Oh, what _could_ I have been thinking? You? Shagging? A total stranger could smell the virginity a mile off. So, don't even _attempt_ trying to convince me otherwise, Granger. I think we both know full well that no one in their right mind would sleep with you. Well, unless you were holding pieces of their anatomy for ransom. Wait, is that why Longbottom is the way he is? Stole his brain, did you?"

Granger pressed her lips together tightly, eyes flashing. 

Aha, yet another weak spot. 

"You leave Neville alone, Malfoy. He's…"

"Ten times the person I am?" Draco suggested with a pleasant, suffocating smirk. He then laughed. "Why, yes, the fat fuck definitely weighs it. Now, before you start harping on about how wonderfully Longbottom can handle a weed, let me give you some advice – don't. I can forgo the image quite cheerfully, Granger, I assure you. And stop wasting my time because I'd rather be free of your tiresome company as soon as possible, especially if you continue being so selfish and refuse to aid me. So just fucking answer me what I asked you in the first place - are you in or are you out? And you had better answer me or I'll-" 

"No." 

It was said softly. Almost inaudibly. But Draco could feel it buzzing, echoing through his ears.

He stared at her. Eyes dazed. Mind thrown.

She could _not_ be serious. Nobody refused him. _Nobody._

"… what… what did you say?" the boy asked a minute, perhaps a lifetime, afterwards.

Granger averted her eyes. 

"I-I said no, Malfoy… I thought about it and I can't… we can't…"

But her words fell on deaf ears. Draco tried to ignore them, shaking his head, hand combing through his hair, his smile jerking against his lips.

"Well… well it's a good thing it doesn't fucking matter what you want. Because _I_ say that you're involved, Granger…"

"Malfoy…" 

"And what _I_ say fucking goes. So you just sit there, shut up and listen to what_ I_ have to say because _I'm_ in charge here and -"

"Malfoy… _please_…"

"- and you better bloody deal with it. Didn't your muggle mother ever teach you it was rude to interrupt, Granger? Because, personally, I don't give two shits what you think. _I_ say this is possible so _my_ word is the one that matters, got that? If _I_ say we can bring someone back, _I_ fucking well am right. Who are you to query my actions? Who the fuck do you think you are?! Just you fucking see, Granger. I'll show you, I'll show everyone…! This spell will work and I, Draco Malfoy, will be the one who will-"

_"For Goodness sake, Malfoy, stop it!" _

All the calmness, all the relaxed, composed calmness, had dissipated. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving and her bowed head shaking side to side emphatically, almost like a madman's twitch. 

And Draco could merely look on, dumbfounded.

"Just… just stop it… _please_… stop…" she stuttered, sounding as though she was shivering from cold. She lifted her eyes to look into his smoky grey gaze, shaky disbelief etched on her face. Her lips quivered. "This… this won't work, Malfoy. Even if what you say is true… this… this is lunacy. This isn't even a fully developed spell… it's probably dangerous… You… I… I won't let you give me false hope, Malfoy. I just… I won't lose them twice. I refuse to go through that again… especially for some… for some half-baked plan…"__

Despite himself, the blond boy bat an eyelid, his unfinished words hanging in the air, paralysed. 

It was almost a miracle. Someone managing to shut him up during one of his tirades without hitting him in the face or (as Weasley had so aptly mastered) kissing his tongue quiet. It was surreal. 

Draco finally found his voice and, to his astonishment, it was rather calm. He had rather expected himself to begin jumping up and down in an insane impersonation of a child's tantrum. He looked to her, almost scarily relaxed.

"And what if it _does _work, huh, Granger?" he sneered, his voice soft, slickly spiteful. He lifted his head, a dark look crossing his face. "You're not going to 'risk' the chance of him coming back because it _might _hurt? You fucking selfish _bitch_. And I thought you were supposed to be an idiot Gryffindor. Here I thought you _cared _about Weasel."

Her face instantly hardened at this. She snapped her eyes to glare into his, sucking in her cheeks, cheekbones seeming to visibly sharpen. Draco felt like yawning widely, pointedly, in her face as a growl began to audibly purr within her throat.

"You know nothing about how I feel about Ron, Malfoy. _Nothing,_" she hissed. If that was supposed to scare him, Draco was simply _trembling_. 

With laughter.

"Actually, Granger, I think I know _exactly_ how you feel about 'Ron'," the Malfoy boy said, a vindictive smirk on his thin lips and his eyebrows wiggling in a rather lewd fashion. "Too bad he wanted me instead, isn't it?"

He was so fantastically, villainously sexy that Draco really could have shagged himself if he were ever given the chance.

Hermione Granger didn't answer. She simply looked away from his taunting gaze. She dropped her eyes down to her knees, looking as though she was doing some heavy, melancholic thinking. And Draco merely watched, rather intrigued to see if she'd break. After all, he had fifty galleons on himself to force her into a breakdown. And, to be rather fair, so far he was doing quite exceptionally and promisingly well.

Head still bowed and voice soft and apprehensive, the girl finally spoke.

"… how… how do I know that everything you're saying isn't a lie? This spell… _everything?"_

The Slytherin wiped an invisible smear of dirt off of his right shoulder with the tips of his fingers before turning his attention with vague interest back to her. Extending out his arm, he rubbed his fingertips together in an impression of loosening the filth on them. So, even if the boy did have some tiny amount of dirt on his hands, they would fall right on top of the girl's head. Ingenious, even if he did say so himself.

He then shrugged casually. Blasé and bored faced.

"You're the library hound, not me, Granger. You want to look it up, be my fucking guest. Restricted Section. _The Quest for Immortality –_ there should be a whole chapter on it."

He saw her look away from him contemplatively, briefly mumbling the name under her breath, wrinkling her brows and then just sitting there, doing nothing but looking thoughtful. She then looked back up at Draco, a strange look in her eye. It wasn't sadness, it wasn't grief. 

It was tenacity with a hint of expectancy on the side.

And it was also very silent and excruciatingly annoying. And Draco was as famous for his patience as he was for his compassion.

So, basically, virtually unknown.

He cracked under the pressure.

"What are you fucking waiting for?!" he snapped, despite his own desire to remain calm.

But Hermione Granger wasn't intimidated. She lifted her head up again, ignoring his scowls with a fiercely determined look on her face.

"For you to let me go. And then, you can lead me to this book. If you really want my help, Malfoy, you need to show me some proof."

*          *          *

"Ow! You stood on my foot!"

"Good, I hope it hurts like hell."

"For heaven's sake, Malfoy, this would be so much easier if we shared an invisibility cloak between us."

"Fuck off, Granger, I'm not getting close enough to touch you."

"Oh, honestly! I can't even tell where you are."

"Where else would I be but beside you? Fuck, how _do_ you get those grades? Sure you aren't giving head to Dumbledore, Granger?"

"… don't be so vulgar, Malfoy. And for goodness sake, lower your voice. What if Mrs Norris or Filch spot us?"

"I'll be as vulgar and as loud as I fucking well want, mudblood. And explain to me how exactly they're going to spot two invisible students."

"Disembodied voices do have a tendency to he heard, Malfoy."

"Then maybe you should shut the hell up, Granger. You're going to get us caught."

Draco couldn't see the glare the girl was throwing at him but, if he could, it would have made him smile. As it was, he merely grumbled, treading as lightly as he could on the hard, empty corridor floor, head whipping side to side in a vigilant manner, wand held out before him. 

That transfigure-happy bastard Moody would have been proud. Which, in itself, was enough incentive to make Draco stop doing it at once. 

Unfortunately, just thinking of that disfigured one-legged freak suddenly made the boy so furious that Granger had to twice restrain him from setting fire to the tapestries they crept by on their voyage down to the library. Then she had to once again when they passed a particularly showy Gryffindor flag.

Pulling out of her invisible hold in disgust, Draco aptly set a reminder to himself to wash, de-flea and scrub once he got back to the Shack.

Stupid fucking library. 

Did it usually take this long to get to? The Malfoy found himself bored already. If something didn't jump out soon and entertain and/or humour him, he would give up on this plan entirely.

And that was when Draco heard the noise. 

A suit of armour nearby creaked, breastplate glinting in the warm fire-lit corridor, roused from its slumber from their invisible footsteps. Stretching rather clankingly, dust falling from its ancient joints like sand as its heavy arms were lifted, it opened the mouth of its visor in a strange travesty of a yawn. Then it stopped, distracted, helmet-head inclined to a slight angle in eyeless curiosity. It was looking straight at them.

Draco growled at it.

"Mind your own fucking business," he hissed. The suit of armour lowered its arms and gave a rather wheezy, amused chuckle from within its headgear. Then, within a blink of an eye, its metal hand had reached for the sword hanging from its belt. Draco dropped open his mouth, horrified.

_"Stationarus Composium!"_

A beam of turquoise, glittering light hit the suit of armour right in the head, a liquid blue paralysis trickling its way downwards from its armoured shoulders to its chest and down its legs until the entire thing was frozen still. The journey to the raised arm was, as fate often enjoys putting such dangerous situations, last and the sword within the hand was but a centimetre from Draco's nose when it finally decided to screechily halt.

The boy's eyes were wide, voice trying not to squeak when his mind had processed what had just happened. Slowly, he turned shakily to Granger, stepping back away from the blade in the process. With Harry's invisibility cloak pooled at her feet, giving the impression that her legs finished at the ankle, she dropped down her wand-hand, a blue glow still visible around the tip of it. Hermione Granger then let out an irritated breath.

"For goodness sake, Malfoy…! Why must you always _insist_ on causing a scene? Now come on, we have to hurry, Filch might have heard that. And that spell is temporary, so we really shouldn't stick around here for him to finish you off." 

Then she bent down, grabbed her cloak and threw it around herself again, letting it engulf her back into invisibility. He heard her footsteps hurry further down the hall, fading away as they turned the corner to the second floor, where the library was situated. Draco turned back to the statue-like suit of armour, feeling absolutely furious.

"I could have taken you," he muttered viciously before hurrying after her.

*          *          *

"I've found it, Malfoy."

Draco, who had been tracing a shelf of aged books with his fingertips impatiently, turned around. The restricted section of the library was full of rather small, cramped little aisles and although it was currently only lit by the ends of two wands, it was, unfortunately, not difficult to visibly spot the girl, who was standing to the left of the opposite row of books.

Damn it. Now he had to take the trouble to move _willingly_ towards her.

Relieved but mostly pissed off that she had found the book first, he stomped forward, kicking his folded cloak further across the floor resentfully. 

Well, if he couldn't take it out on her, something had to fucking well receive his wrath, be it his own possessions.

Draco didn't bother watching the silvery material slide to some far corner as he made his way towards the floating head and shoulders of Granger. The rest of her seemed to be completely invisible under her own newly acquired cloak save her hands, which were protruding out from the air. And they were holding a book. Draco lifted up his wand, making sure the light from it hit the book precisely, severe doubt imprinted on his face. After all, how the hell could she find it if he hadn't already? 

And he was quite right. The girl was holding a velvet blood-red book. 

Draco let out a knowing snort. He should have known not to trust a stupid muggle-born with such a task.

"That's not it, Granger. Learn to read and stop wasting my time. The book in the library at the Manor is _green_. Need me to show you what _green_ looks like, too?"

The girl sighed at him, daring to look rather tired of his insults, before holding the book in question up to face him. The gold-leaf title glinted from the wand-light, the words 'Quest for Immortality' mocking as they each shone brightly up at him. Draco stepped forward and snatched the thing from her bad-temperedly.

That annoying cow. What sort of trick was the mudblood trying to play on him? Because, if she really thought she could outsmart a pureblood, she was as idiotic as Rubeus Hagrid was fat.

He flicked through the intricately bordered pages gruffly, finally making his way to the contents page. He ran a pale finger down the list before him.

_… The Elixir of Life… Perpetual Potions… Time Manipulation…Unicorn blood…  _

Draco could see his index finger shaking as it traced down the list for the third time. He tried to stop it immediately. Malfoy fingers did not shake. They were poised for anything. After all, Malfoys had nothing to worry about. Draco had nothing to worry about that. There _was _nothing to worry about. The Resurrection reference was obviously somewhere else in the book. 

He flipped _The Quest for Immortality_ to the back page, trying the index page instead. Maybe just a small mention of La Contati, or perhaps the word 'resurrection' would be in the book. Perhaps it might have been mentioned as an unfinished method, ongoing research… Draco _had_ only read the thing once. 

But there was nothing. 

And then he had a thought. Draco turned back to the very front page, Granger watching him in wonderment as the worn red velvet warmed under his fingers. 

This was wrong… all fucking wrong. The book had nearly frozen his fingers off when he'd first handled it….

And then he saw it.

There, on the top right-hand corner, gold almost completely scratched off, were the letters…

"Third Edition." 

Shit.

Draco slowly looked up at the girl, eyes almost eerily pale looking in the sparse light. 

"…This isn't the right fucking book… Those Ministry wankers!  They must have written the spell out when they re-published it and _then_ printed it a hideous warm red, as well! Those colour-blind arseholes! Well, that first bloody edition has to be around here somewhere… Well, don't just stand there, Granger, fucking look!"

"Malfoy, would you _please_ try and calm down, Filch will…"

Draco, as he did with most people when they bored the hell out of him, ignored her words. Dropping the book in his hands with a loud thunk on the ground, the floor vibrating slightly from the impact, he crazily scuttled about, tiptoeing to try and catch a glimpse of the book spines on the upper shelves. He pulled at least seven out then swore loudly when each and every one was the wrong book, leaving them either half out or to fall to the floor.

"Malfoy, if you don't stop making such a racket, we'll be caught…!" the girl hissed frantically beside him, deftly managing to catch the fifth book he chucked over his shoulder before she stuffed it back into the empty space it belonged. "We have to accept the fact that the book isn't here and get out before we get in serious trouble!"

Draco kicked at the persistent pull at his trouser leg and growled at her angrily. Who the fuck did she think she was, audaciously assuming she had the slightest right to touch him?

"Get the fuck _off _me, Granger! You think playing footsie with me is going to sway me to your stupid requests? Filthy mudblood, I know I'm irresistible but if you put even one finger on me again I'll rip out your…"

"Malfoy, don't be absurd! I'm not even touching you!"

Draco barked out a laugh at this. Oh please, like _everyone_ didn't want to cop a feel of him. He remembered how many people literally swooned at his feet in the school halls when he walked by. Not that he blamed them, of course. But looking and touching were two totally separate things.

"Oh really?" Draco sneered, kicking again at the persistent stroking at his ankles. "Well, Granger, if you're not fucking groping me like a bitch in the heat then who…?!"

The hiss from the ground answered Draco's question. 

They both looked down in astonishment at the cat whose teeth were firmly lodged at the bottom of the Slytherin's trousers, viciously pulling and tearing at the material. 

"It's Mrs Norris…" Granger said faintly. 

The feline pulled back from the fabric to spit ferociously at her in reply, causing the girl to jump back, frightened. 

Draco, however, was not so scared. He was actually, to be honest, absolutely fucking furious. He snapped his head down to look at his mangled trouser leg. Draco then, very slowly, glared up at the cat, trembling with rage. And then, before any of them had realised he'd done it, Draco had pulled back his leg and kicked the thing as hard and far as he could.

With a horrible strangled meow, the cat went flying in a rather comical fashion smack into a bookshelf, arms and legs splayed flat like a starfish, the bookshelf shaking hard beneath it. 

Draco broke into an evil grin and turned to Granger, just to make sure she had been fortunate enough to catch his act of brilliance. He flicked his head winningly, his smile growing more and more self-satisfied. 

A spectacular kick, even if he did say so himself. In fact, it usually _was_ him doing the saying. That taught the next fucking household pet what would happen to them if they ruined his clothes. Let them all try. He'd kick all their arses – _literally_.

However, the triumphant smirk on Draco's face slowly died away when he realised exactly how _hard _the bookshelf was shaking. 

Oh holy fuck.

He dived backwards and smashed straight into the Gryffindor, both of them falling to the floor in a painful tangle of limbs as the bookshelf gave an almighty creak. They watched in horror, Draco wildly pushing the girl out of his line of vision, as it fell forwards, the books within all individually pouring out before the entire thing collapsed to the floor with such a loud crash that it sounded as though every window in Hogwarts had simultaneously shattered at once. 

Draco suddenly felt very numb, hair and face completely covered in a thick layer of the dust expelled from the ancient books, frozen to the spot in absolute panic.

Feeling as though he was beginning to have palpitations, the boy clutched at his heart. 

That crash had probably woken up the entire school. Dumbledore and McGonagall and Snape and Filch were probably outside the door right now.

Oh fuck, he was going to be killed.

"Malfoy…!" Granger suddenly gasped, pulling him out of his daze with her shrill voice as she grabbed her leg, obviously injured from the fall. She groped for Potter's invisibility cloak with her other hand, looking at the Malfoy with desperate fright. "Quick! Get under the cloak before Filch gets here…!"

But Draco heaved himself off her leg. He would rather spend the rest of eternity at Dobby's beck and call than ever share a cloak with Granger, he promised himself that much. He refused to willingly get that close, something he had already stated to the slow bint quite _clearly. _

Practically crawling on all fours on the dusty floor, he threw fallen books and pages out of his way, almost digging into the ground in desperation to find his cloak. Oh, he hoped his father never knew about this… _ever._

_"Malfoy!"_ Granger hissed again to his retreating back. "Malfoy, stop being ridiculous! Just get over here…!"

Why the fuck were invisibility cloaks so damn invisible on everything, including stone floors?!

Draco suddenly looked up as voices and footsteps were beginning to sound from just outside the room. They grew louder by the second. Dropping his head, the boy searched even harder.

_"Malfoy!"_

Draco snapped his head around irritably, his nerves frazzled, his patience on its last tether and opened his mouth to say the filthiest, rudest and downright nastiest thing his mind could muster…

But then a large shadow engulfed over him and, with a squeak from her corner, Granger promptly disappeared under her cloak. 

"Well, well, well… what have we here, my pretty?"

Turning slowly in mounting dread, his heart pounding so hard that he was sure it was bouncing about his ribs like a loose tennis ball, Draco rose his eyes up the tall figure standing above him. 

He gulped. 

Argus Filch, with a slightly dazed looking Mrs Norris curling at his feet, had never, _ever _looked happier.

* * *

_For information on updates, please do join my webgroup :) - groups.yahoo.com/group/not_in_denial/join_


	6. Chapter 5 Draco's Departure

_Err… so, 6 months late… I guess I need to give one heck of a good apology, huh? Um… this is an extra long chapter, as a sorry! I'm sorry! I'm SO sorry! _

_The story sort of starts from here… it probably starts quite slow but… err... if you're patient looks pleading - I'll be quicker next time, I promise! I'm not giving up on this! Please read and review, would mean the world to me :)_

_Oh, and I have to edit this to write some dedications, because I have been BAD and will be strung up if I don't! :D Of course, dedicated to my evil headed Deezley – who is so evil that I cannot describe it – no, REALLY, I can't. Also to my beautiful Manu, who I adore so much she really should file for a restraining order against me but, most of all, to my Sophie who has gone far, far away and who I miss terribly – come back, Soph!!!_

_And of course, for the usual suspects, Clairey, Jaime, Maria and Maud, who I write all this rubbish for – luff ya all! :D_

* * *

_He is D – Deceitful._

_He is R – Reprehensible._

_He is A – Such an Arsehole._

_He is C – Cranky Cranky._

_He is O… O…**O!**_****

**Chapter 5 – Draco's Departure**

Draco Malfoy tried his hardest not to look up. He tried not to look nervous. He tried repeating an odd sort of reassuring mantra inside his brain but unfortunately this ended up reverberating over and over again until the words garbled together and he soon forgot what the hell he was chanting about.

So, he went back to trying not to look up. And try he did.

He stared intensely down at his shoes, looking as fine and wand-polished as always, his eyes resisting the temptation to flicker upwards to catch Albus Dumbledore's stare.

Not that he was scared or anything. Because Draco wasn't scared of a damn thing. Ever. The very thought of his being so was ridiculous. Insane. Utterly laughable. Completely stupid. Absolutely fucking untrue.

Draco gulped, throat clenching treacherously tight, the headmaster's gaze singeing the pale blond hairs on his skin to the root. He could feel the veins in his cheeks prickle.

Biting his lip, Draco tried not to whimper.

He may have been many things – arrogant, perverse, ruthless, determined, cruel, vain, sadistic and _ever so_ open-minded – but first and foremost, the boy was quite definitely a coward. It was the sole reason he escaped from his father in the first place. The reason he refused to spy for the fucking 'good' side. The reason he could only stand beside a Hippogriff for a second before screaming like a girl and running away in the opposite direction. And it was pretty much the reason why he couldn't seem to catch the furious eye of, arguably, the greatest sorcerer in world.

Well, he presumed it was furious.

He had yet to witness it but, seeing as he had just broken his curfew, demolished the man's restricted library and had probably ruined a fair few hundred rare books in the process, Draco hardly assumed Dumbledore was about to conjure him some flowers. And like he even fucking wanted flowers anyway. Those vile little sticks of pollen only induced sneezing, horribly unattractive puffy eyes and mucus. Draco loathed them. Besides, none of them were half as pretty as he was.

The boy suddenly seethed as he, quite unexpectedly, had a thought, whizzing passed his mind at some untraceable speed. He didn't even know why he was thinking it but all he could mull over at that moment was one name.

_Granger._

That stupid fucking cow. He had almost – understandably – forgotten about her.

That obnoxious bitch of a bookworm.

He could practically see her curled up in bed, reading some fucking boring book. All safe in direly decorated Gryffindor tower… laughing at his misfortune.

A mudblood. Laughing at him. _Him._

The visual image was almost too much for Draco's mind to bear. He heard a weird, unhealthy little 'pop' in his temple and wondered if he had just burst a blood vessel. Or the remains of his sanity.

That mong should have been standing right here beside him – well, not too close – receiving all this wrath instead. She should have been on her knees, crying her eyes out and begging both Draco's and Dumbledore's forgiveness for causing such calamity and destruction. And then she would pledge, with all her infected mudblood heart, to make amends in any possible way she could.

Besides, Draco impartially mused, it was all her bloody fault he got caught in the first place. Why the fuck had he asked – well, demanded – the help of a girl? This is why women were so fucking unattractive, they had no brains. And everyone - everyone who mattered, anyway – knew that the male of the species was the more intelligent, dominant and superior by far.

So, when thought of like that, it really was rather inevitable that Draco would end up being a poof. After all, Malfoys were notorious for accepting nothing less than the absolute best, a characteristic which ranged from their impeccable clothing to appropriate bed-partners. Although, when Draco thought about it, Weasley was hardly the brightest fairy in the bush…

Wait, no. He would not think of Weasley now. No, no and no again.

He would not think of his long fingers or his annoyingly attractive smile or his amazingly big feet. Not the blueness of his eyes or the way his ears stuck out from his head. And definitely not the curve of his neck...

Draco squeezed shut his eyes until spots danced on the black insides of his eyelids like green smoke, slowly obscuring the image of an orange-haired boy above him, eyes tightly shut, mouth letting out ragged, throaty gasps that breathed Draco's name into the very air itself, covered in a sheen of sweat and freckles and nought much else and…

No, wait, Draco would not think of him now. Merlin, he would not think of _that_ now. Not in front of Dumbledore. Not now of all fucking times. Not when he was lacking his cloak and had no possible way to conceal his suddenly attentive crotch.

That prick Weasley. Being a bloody stiffy and still giving Draco one in the process.

But Draco wasn't going to fucking let him. Oh no. He wasn't going to think about him in the slightest. He would cross his legs forever if he'd fucking have to. Think about Crabbe and Goyle naked in the showers and that hairy oaf Hagrid in a black teddy for eternity if that's what it would take.

That ginger wanker, he was probably doing it on purpose, as well.

But Draco was not going to give the Gryffindor idiot the satisfaction. He could go months without thinking about him. Fucking months. He meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.

And so far less… spirit-lifting thoughts came into his head instead. Actually, more like vomit inducing considering that he went back to thinking about Hermione rat-face Granger.

He thought back to the library and remembered all that fucking racket she made with her irritatingly high, chipmunk-like voice. He pondered over how he could have had the First Edition of _The Quest for Immortality_ in his hands by now were it not for her and her sheer stupidity. And no, he was not thinking about Weasley and death and chessboards and desperate groping and soft touches and blood-soaked kisses and having wild sex on sofas and –

"Mr Malfoy?"

Draco started at the sound of his own name and jerked his eyes up before he could stop himself. On catching the look on Albus Dumbledore's harshly wizened face, he muttered a soft curse.

Fuck it, he had stoutly promised himself he wouldn't even glance at the older man but now here Draco was, held captive by his gaze.

Fuck the man for having that impenetrable stare. Fuck him right in the ear.

The boy opened his mouth to speak, whether to apologise (unlikely) or blame the entire affair on Granger (highly likely) he wasn't quite sure. However, whatever it was that Draco was going to state, he suddenly found himself unable to conjure the words. He simply stared at the Professor, open-mouthed and feeling incredibly foolish.

That bastard. He had some fucking cheek, making Draco experience for even a second how it would feel to be like everyone else. Could he not see that the Malfoy was the epitome of all things suave and sophisticated, even when he resembled a fish out of water? Hell, _especially_ when he resembled a fish out of water? Had the man ever seen a fish out of water that could possibly look this composed? This refined? This sexy?

Dumbledore leaned further back into his reclining chair, his fingers laced together in an impression of calm.

Draco closed his mouth.

Providing him with a look so incredibly level and pensive that the boy felt bristled with perspiration, the headmaster soon tore his gaze away and Draco could almost hear an audible rip of air as he did so. Albus Dumbledore then raised his gaze over the Slytherin's head and rested it on the figure by the door.

"Thank you, Argus, you may leave now."

Filch. Draco had forgotten he was even in the room. Thank God. As if anyone would memorably think of that fucking squib besides the devil cat at his side. It was amazing that the man and his feline hadn't exchanged vows yet. It was enough to make Draco check Filch's left hand for a ring every time they were in close proximity.

Draco turned around to flicker his eyes disdainfully up the scruffy, lank-haired stick of a man, who was still cradling the cat with one arm and stroking her with the other.

Filch, haggard as ever, looked particularly disappointed and decidedly bad tempered that he couldn't watch yet another wayward student being punished, his entire face crumpling in frustration. He then nodded with a curt sort of twitch at Dumbledore, as though facial rheumatism had just kicked in. Draco let out a particularly nasty smirk, delighted to catch Filch bridle with anger and barely held the temptation to flutter his eyelashes insubordinately at the grumpy old man. Still glowering at the boy and obviously muttering words of payback to the hissing, irate Mrs Norris, the school caretaker reluctantly exited the office, eyes never leaving Draco's and even boring into the wood of the door as he shut it after him.

Draco then turned back to Dumbledore. He quickly dropped the smile.

The headmaster was still looking as irksomely unreadable as ever, staring at Draco through his spectacles with a long, pronounced look that could have made anyone squirm on the spot. And Draco did. Repeatedly. In fact, the only reason he didn't fidget for the whole remainder of the visit was because Dumbledore finally decided to speak.

"I have noted something, Mr Malfoy," the aged man said. He then, instead of continuing like a normal human being, turned to idly pet the plumed head of the large scarlet bird that was sitting on a golden perch by his side, whose eyes were fixed beadily, untrustingly, on Draco.

Fawkes the fucking Phoenix.

Oh, Draco was so unimpressed.

He stuck his tongue out at it only when Dumbledore shifted his attention to peer out of a window. The headmaster then, having had enough of staring at the darkening Hogwarts grounds, turned his attention back to his student and Draco retreated his tongue just in time.

Dumbledore wasn't smiling but he wasn't angry either. The Slytherin felt a jolt of hope.

"I am sure you can understand, my boy, that being headmaster can often get incredibly tedious at times," Dumbledore said. Draco didn't doubt it but didn't answer either. What the hell was the crazy old fool talking about? Dumbledore, however, didn't seem to be waiting for Draco to reply. "Very tedious indeed, I'm afraid," he continued almost sadly. "But when struck by monotony, I find that a rather curious fellow inside me decides to notice things a great deal – to pass at least some of the boredom, you see. And, today, what I have 'noticed' during one of my many whimsical trails of thought is that despite your expulsion, Mr Malfoy, I see you a significant amount more in this office than in your previous school years put together. To own the truth, it appears that I see you significantly more than I see _any_ of my students." Both Dumbledore and Fawkes seemed to incline their heads questioningly at him at this. "Why do you suppose that is, Draco?"

Draco unconsciously retreated back.

Well, that was rather unexpected. Being a Malfoy, he usually demanded a proper welcome when addressed or spoken to. A 'hello', a thorough licking of each shoe and a promise of allegiance were optional yet very much appreciated, too. He narrowed his eyes. That crazy old sock lover, how could anyone complain from seeing him far too often?

Frowning, his arrogance found itself overcoming his initial dread.

"I don't exactly get a kick out of it either, Professor."

Dumbledore looked at the boy for a minute. Almost as though judging that this answer had been satisfactory, he made a gesture, wand in hand, to the handsome mahogany seat sitting on the other side of his long desk.

"Please sit down, Draco."

With a beam of purple sparks, the chair was pushed backwards and into an incredibly inviting angle for the boy to be seated.

Looking at it rather mistrustfully – as though Dumbledore had placed an invisible Filibuster firework on it for an evil practical joke – he cautiously lowered himself down on the edge of the chair, eyes narrowing in suspicion and occasionally darting to his posterior to check it was still affixed to the rest of him.

Well, one never could be too certain. Dumbledore was an unpredictable nut after all. Although at present, the headmaster was looking so fucking serene that it made Draco want to scream the office down and make every one of those damnable portraits hold their hands over their ears in pain.

But Draco didn't scream. He didn't shout. He didn't jump on Dumbledore's desk and start kicking all the random little clicking gadgets into the walls and the piles of parchment to the floor, despite how entertaining and appealing the idea seemed. Instead, he put his pale hands in his lap and tried to look as composed as he could.

When one was a rich, swotty little aristocrat – which Draco undoubtedly was – irrationally violent behaviour looked both cheap and common and polite interest when in conversation with someone who was foolish enough to think they had any sort of authority over you had to be adopted.

So, adopt Draco did.

He cocked his head slightly to one side in an allusion of innocence, white brows kindly expectant, mouth ironed free of any sneers. Unfamiliar and feeling rather uncomfortably itchy on his face, he had to admit, but perfect nonetheless. But, honestly, did anyone expect any less of him?

Dumbledore, watching him closely, lowered his wrinkled hands and rested them on the cool surface of his desk, clasping them together. He blinked once, slowly.

"I trust you didn't find what you were looking for, Draco?"

Draco, bullying himself to stare back, barely restrained his legs from running out the room without him.

Dumbledore knew, he was fucking positive he knew.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek so hard it began to numb.

"I was just browsing, Professor," he said tersely. So far, so good. As long as his voice didn't go unnaturally high at the end of sentences, he didn't blink an unnatural amount and he didn't breathe at all, he would be fine. He was in perfect control, as always.

Dumbledore's moustache ticked.

"Indeed," he said, in such a profound sort of way that it made some of Draco's panic dissipate. Instead, the boy grunted at him. For fuck's sake. Anyone would think, by the way Dumbledore acted, that the man was a bloody messiah or something. Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the sheer vanity of the geriatric but felt he was already treading on dangerous ground as it was. So he tried looking polite again. It didn't look very convincing. And Dumbledore didn't look very convinced. "Forgive me if find this rather peculiar, Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore continued, moustache still ticking," but from the impression Argus has painted of the state of the library, it appears that you were searching for something in particular."

Oh screw and bugger it.

Draco did some desperately quick thinking.

"… I fell into a bookshelf, sir. Books went flying everywhere… and… er, I urgently needed a book for tomorrow's potion lesson. Um… yes."

Smooth, Malfoy. Smooth. Draco didn't even have Potions tomorrow. He would have throttled himself with his own two hands if it wouldn't have marred his good looks or jeopardised the state of his nails.

Dumbledore raised those white eyebrows of his, rising so high that they disappeared into his fluffy, silvery hairline.

"Ah, so it was urgent browsing then, Mr Malfoy?"

The man was smiling. Quite blatantly smiling. Draco could fucking well see it. The Slytherin scowled darkly, despite himself. No one mocked him. Especially when they were about 500 years old and attempted to taunt him wearing false teeth.

"Yes," Draco snapped irritably. As well aware of the fact that Dumbledore could kill, expel, disembowel and decapitate him all at once if the fancy took him, the boy simply would not stand for anyone treating him with contempt and ridicule. And if Dumbledore thought he could take Draco on without a fight, then the wrinkly old prune of a man was severely mis-

"Draco."

He froze with the severity in Dumbledore's voice. He hadn't read his mind, had he?

"Err… yes, sir?"

He did not just squeak. Malfoys do not squeak. However, Malfoys do look confused when their eccentric headmaster bestows them with a weird, almost compassionate look. And Draco, despite himself, looked totally confused, especially when Dumbledore let out a deep, almost troubled, exhale from his long crooked nose. The old man then smiled gently, his electric eyes softening from their previously deadpan expression as he simply said,

"I know what you were looking for, my boy."

Draco's stomach gave a haphazard cartwheel whilst the rest of his insides seemed to have Disapparated away to some far off destination without bothering to inform him. And it was suddenly very, very hard to breathe.

But this did not deter the boy's mouth from morphing to an easy snarl.

Now, an angry Dumbledore – Draco couldn't handle. A sympathetic, all knowing and annoying-as-fuck Dumbledore – he sure as hell could.

He crossed his arms cantankerously over his chest and glared at the headmaster.

"I wasn't looking for anything," he hissed, the skin on his back tingling on end as though he were bristling like an angry cat. "I fell, the shelves fell, the books in the shelves fell and then we all fell together. That was it. The end. I feel I have been very clear on this, Professor."

The old man's lined mouth had noticeably curved up at either end and he was eying the impertinent boy with something akin to fondness. It completely threw Draco.

"I may just seem a batty old man to you, Draco – and quite rightly, too, of course – but thankfully I have gained things other than wrinkles in my years."

Draco grunted. Dumbledore had lost a lot more than he had gained, that was for sure.

He tried to look indifferent.

"I wasn't looking for anything, sir, really. I tripped, that's all that happened." Lazily said but with a stern undertone. He mentally congratulated himself for his performance then eased himself up off his seat. "Now, is that all, Professor? Because I really should be going. I have three essays to write for next week and I haven't even started my dissertation on Animagi for Professor McGonagall. And then I need to finish stewing those newt tails for my…"

"Please re-take your seat, Draco. I am not quite finished."

Draco shut his mouth and sat back down.

So much for escaping punishment. It appeared that Dumbledore seemed hell-bent on dragging this 'trashed library' issue out until Draco started to feel guilty. Well, that wasn't going to happen any time soon. It made the boy want to huff immaturely. He still didn't see what the big fucking deal was. It was only a few books. Nothing a couple of spells wouldn't fix. What were they all, defective? He could fix them in a heartbeat. But then again, he was a higher life form. Was Dumbledore totally inept or something?

Draco let out rather long exhale. He really didn't have time for this. He could have been pretending to do his homework in the shack in all this time and be admiring and blowing kisses at himself in the mirror instead.

"Sir, if this is about the library…"

But here Dumbledore shook his head sadly before he could finish.

"Unfortunately, my boy, it is not," he said softly. And then, with barely a beat in it, "Draco, have you noticed your lack of letters in the morning?"

Draco didn't say anything, a mixture of shock from hearing such a strange, abrupt question to being silenced by the question itself.

There was a considerable pause as they just eyed one another. The occasional odd gadget on Dumbledore's desk spluttered.

If truth were told, Draco _had_ noticed it but refused to acknowledge that he was unpopular in the slightest. He had pretended that owls got lost, that the letters were far too heavy with treats, money and words of adoration for the birds to carry. And after a while, he honestly started to believe it, too. Even he marvelled at the gross extent of his own self-denial sometimes.

Draco leaned back hard against his chair, the pattern on the wood digging into his back through his thin robes. For some reason, this made him feel light-headed.

"I hadn't noticed, no," he lied smoothly. "Trivial little things like that don't bother me, Professor. I have more important things to worry about."

Draco promptly decided to forget the night of desperation when he had nearly written himself a letter in sheer lonely boredom (to his own credit though, he hexed it into ashes after 'Dearest, darling Draco').

The kind look on Dumbledore's face made Draco suddenly wonder (and worry) again if the headmaster had just read his mind. Dumbledore then let out another one of his little sighs before gracefully flicking his wand, but this time at the huge mound of envelopes that sat on the side of his desk. Under his sweeping direction, they slid across the table and right in front of the blond.

Although surprise was supposed to be an alien feeling to a Malfoy – because they knew and expected everything, of course – Draco couldn't help it. His mouth fell right open.

On the very top of the pile sat an envelope, elaborately addressed in shining emerald green ink and coiling into the words 'Draco Malfoy' in exquisitely, almost anally, neat detail. The paper was thick with quality. The curves of each individual letter twirled with wealth. And the handwriting was more familiar to him than his own. There was no shred of doubt in Draco Malfoy's mind whom this particular letter had been from.

"Father," he whispered.

Draco slowly stood up, surveying the mound before him in awe. There were sixty letters heaped there, at the very least, envelopes ranging in colour and size. There were even some letters that didn't seem to have envelopes at all.

What the fucking hell…?

Not allowing himself to take that thought any further, Draco pulled at the end of the garish red bow that held the pile together until it came undone. The stack of letters cascaded down like a collapsing building, falling sideways until the desk was covered with a line of envelopes.

And his name was starkly visible on every one.

It took a while for the boy to find his voice but, when he did, it was far from pleased.

"These… these are my letters. _Mine_."

Draco, whose fingers were trailing along each and every letter in wonder, snapped his head up at Dumbledore, a sudden pounding in his ears. And then, before he could stop himself, remind himself who he was even talking to… "Why did you keep them? They weren't yours to take, they were mine! Who do you think you are, reading my things – these are _private!"_

In all the years Draco had known Dumbledore, never once had the headmaster looked so uncomfortable. The older man didn't even seem capable of properly catching Draco's incensed eye as his clasped hands tightened around each other.

"It was concluded, after the unfortunate business with your owl, that it would be safer for you if…"

But Draco wasn't listening. Draco never listened unless it was a complimentary word about him. Instead, he heard a red crack of an explosion sound from behind his eyeballs and the surface of his skin sizzle, as though a bomb had gone off inside him.

And anger.

Fuck yes, he could hear the anger bubbling inside him like a potion in a cauldron. Anger he hadn't felt since a certain fight he had had only a few months ago. His eyes stung, his skull felt as though it were being pounded with a troll club and the inside of his throat was thrashing for some kind of release. And by God, did he release it.

"It wasn't any of your business!" Draco found himself shrieking, stamping his feet in the process. The portraits of the snoozing headmasters around him had given up all pretence of sleeping and were now gasping and crying, "Oh, I say!", the occasional few clapping their hands over their mouths in scandalised expressions. But Draco didn't give a damn as he continued to shout at the top of his voice. "No one has the right to invade my privacy! Don't you people know who I am?! I won't be treated like this! I won't allow it! I won't! My letters aren't anybody's concern but my own! Is this the reason why you let me stay here? Didn't the library have any good reads?! Oh, just wait until I tell my father – he'll be furious! And why would you do it?! You don't even have a reason to look at them unless…!"

And here Draco stopped screaming. The colour that had appeared in his cheeks when he had been yelling was beginning to subside as he stared at the headmaster. His grey eyes were wide with disbelief and clarity, his breathing shallow. Dumbledore, who had been letting Draco shout at him at full volume, was looking at him, politely puzzled. The portraits lowered their hands from their mouths.

Draco slowly shook his head in incredulity. He finally understood.

"You… you were checking up on me, weren't you?" he asked shakily, slandering himself for allowing his voice to sound so frail and weak. But he didn't seem to be able to stop. "You were making sure I wasn't squealing to my father. You don't trust me. That's it, isn't it? Or you were checking on father through me… you were using me as a spy without even telling me."

"Draco…"

But Draco merely stepped back, away from the man, forgetting his perfect Malfoy poise and almost stumbling over the hem of his robes in the process, his eyes never leaving his professor's. A few letters fell to the floor. Draco's complexion slowly turned a pinkish colour that would've been a deep red were it on anyone else, his fingernails pressing crescent moons deep into his palms.

"…I'm right, aren't I?" he hissed.

Dumbledore, who had shut his eyes tightly, was holding his temple with one hand as though trying to keep a headache from trickling its way down to his cheek.

"Draco, please sit down."

"Why should I?" the blond demanded, his entire body clenched tight as he tried not to jump over the table and lash out at the headmaster with his bare hands.

Who the hell did Dumbledore think he was?! How dare he try and use Draco like he were some common muggle?! Did he not know how influential the Malfoys were?!

Draco was far from the patient frame of mind that would have allowed him to hear the headmaster try and talk his way out of this mess. Especially when the only things Draco was in the mood to hear out of Dumbledore's mouth were screams of pain. But, somehow – and he wasn't too sure how – Draco managed to tune his ears to listen as the headmaster lifted his head, slowly opening those intense eyes of his. The mere gaze of the man demanded attention and respect like no other person's could.

Draco fucking hated it.

"I cannot force you to stay, Draco," Dumbledore said in a gentle, almost soothing voice, as though he were trying to calm a large, irate beast without spooking it or provoking it to rip out his throat with its teeth, "but I should be dearly grateful if you would hear this old man out."

At this, Draco sniffed haughtily.

He never wanted to hear Dumbledore out ever again. He had had enough.

"I've got nothing to say to you, _Professor_ and at present, you have nothing I care to hear about. Now, if you'll excuse me…" Prissily, Draco bent down to scoop the loose envelopes into his arms, dropping one or two to the ground in the process and swearing at them in his head for ruining his grand exit "…I'm going to go and read my letters now. _In private._ Goodbye."

The boy turned around with a swish of his black cloak and attempted to hobble his way over to the office door in the most polished of fashions when,

"The resurrection spell will never work, Draco."

Draco stopped dead, his letters still clutched to his chest. He tightened his hold around them, the sharp corners of the envelopes trying to gash through his robes. He could hear frantic whispers from the portraits.__

He would not break into a sweat. He would not let out a wail, fall to his knees dramatically and confess everything. He would not. He would not. He would not…

He opened his mouth. He closed it again. He swallowed hard.

"… I don't know what you're talking about."

Draco congratulated himself briefly and tried to nod his head in self-pride before realising that he was so nervous that he couldn't physically move. He heard Dumbledore's chair scraping against the ground and soon caught sounds of footsteps behind him on the cold stone floor.

"The La Contati curse has never been successfully administered, Draco. It is purely theoretical. For years, Ministry science has attempted safe approaches of implementing the spell but to no avail. It is, simply put, _not possible_, my boy. It is a curse, it is dark magic, it cannot work…" Draco felt a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder. He violently shrugged it off. Unhindered, Dumbledore continued. " If the subject is brought back, they are bound to the darkness that has been wielded to summon them, Draco – they will not be the same person. And that is merely the theory. It has not yet been possible to unearth a powerful enough binding spell to attach one's physical self to one's spiritual. Never, in history, has it been perfected correctly…"

"Yes, it has."

The sudden stubborn, almost alien tone in his voice surprised both Dumbledore and Draco himself. And then, not even sure what the hell he was saying or where the hell it was coming from,

"Voldemort used it. His seers worked on it. There weren't enough of them to fully complete it but they managed most of it." Draco stopped, then finally turned around to sneer quite triumphantly in the headmaster's face. "So, it _is_ possible."

"You are not thinking about this, Draco. The consequences of your actions…"

"Are none of your concern, Professor, because I never seriously considered doing the spell." Draco promptly answered back, surprised by his own articulacy, especially since he was lying through his teeth. But then again, when was he not? Slytherins were the most able of manipulators and he was the most able of Slytherins – he was a god in his own right. Draco looked back at the headmaster passively. It was amazing how quickly he could go from furious to calm. He put it down to sheer talent. "I admit that I thought about La Contati briefly as an option, sir, but it's far too complex and dangerous. Besides…" here Draco took on his nastiest smile "… Weasley's too insignificant for all that trouble. So, can I now go, sir? Professor Snape won't be pleased if I've only got half a page of my essay to hand in."

Dumbledore, who still looked both slightly apprehensive, eventually nodded his head. Still eyeing Draco thoughtfully, he said an incantation and flicked his wand in the direction of the door, which swiftly opened.

"Yes, Mr Malfoy, you may go. Far be it for me to induce Severus' wrath. But…" he paused and gave Draco a look that looked uncharacteristically beseeching. "Do keep in mind what we said today. All wounds heal with time, my boy."

Draco nodded, then waddled his way over to the door, still attempting to keep hold of his armful of letters. He took one last look at the headmaster, who was observing him wearing a soft frown. Draco gave him a smile.

_Sucker,_ the boy thought spitefully as he made his way out.

* * *

Draco wasn't exactly sure how he managed to get his way back to the Shrieking Shack unnoticed, fashioning six dozen letters as his latest armwear and minus his invisibility cloak, but miraculously, manage he did. Irritably muttering the password to his weather-beaten excuse for a door, the boy proceeded to unceremoniously dump the entirety of his newly acquired baggage onto the nearest item of furniture – his hideous sofa. Draco then dropped himself grouchily into the hard, wooden little seat opposite and decided to stare at the pile mutinously. His best ever glare of defiance. A look as threatening as he knew it was sexy. And also a look that he had practised many a year to perfect.

And he directed this at one random envelope in particular.

Draco was not interested in reading what his father had to say. Not in the fucking slightest. He was only pissed off because the letters were kept from him. He didn't actually want to _read _them. He wasn't even curious as to Lucius's words. Why should he be? What could he possibly write that could make Draco any amends? That could persuade him to forgive all the bullshit he had had to endure over the years? That could sway the boy to care about him and look up to him the way he used to?

Draco laughed in soft incredulity into the silent, empty room, shaking his head. He then quickly stopped because such behaviour was borderlining on madness.

His father hadn't just been his role model, his hero, the one he wanted to be when he 'grew up'. Oh no. Lucius Malfoy had been his very God. And Draco's sole reason for living was to serve and appease him. To make him happy. To make him… fucking hell, _proud _of him. It was all he had ever strived for as a child, and as a young adult, to a certain degree.

And it was depraved and embarrassing enough to make anyone physically sick. Draco would have lurched himself at the thought hadn't he been so sophisticated a being. Plus, his robes were too damned expensive to even attempt it.

The boy petulantly recalled over-zealously torturing house-elves at an early age just to see that glint in his father's eye and learning to sharpen his tongue to a hazardous point just so he could sense that vague, almost indistinguishable, amount of respect in Lucius's tone when they talked.

The fact that Draco found torturing house-elves and insulting everyone left, right and centre incredibly enjoyable had absolutely nothing to do with it.

He involuntarily winced as the memories of simpering obedience began to resurface, his body obviously just as disgusted with himself as he was.

Yes, him, _Draco Malfoy_. Absolutely disgusted with himself. He never imagined it possible.

It was sickening though, thoughts of his old life. Almost as though his mere existence up until recently was as some kind of hideous muggle farm animal; being housed, watered and fed bullshit until he got plump enough for Voldemort's slaughterhouse. Draco briefly paused at this analogy, standing back to appreciate the cleverness of his frivolous trails of thought. He then swiftly snapped out of it as he gazed rather determinably at the messy heap once again.

One thing was definitely for certain. There was absolutely no way in Lucifer's earth that Draco would maintain anymore communication with his father. Ever again. He wouldn't put himself through the punishment. Or the tedious nature of it.

No sodding way. He didn't care one jot. Not a single, fucking ink stain.

He chewed on his lip, eyes skimming over the pristine envelopes once again.

Quality.

Richness.

He could almost taste the galleons used to produce just one letter. They reeked from every curl on every 'y' at the end of every 'Malfoy' that he spied, his name gleaming wealthily back at him from every single identical envelope there.

Wealth. Oh God, did he fucking miss wealth… His name written with prestige… the pride and superiority of it all…

And that was when he noticed it.

A rather rumpled envelope with only a corner showing, buried beneath the other grander letters, barely visible and trying to hide.

Draco leaned forward in curiosity.

If one thing were quite clear, this scrap of paper definitely didn't come from Lucius. 'Daddy dearest' would have evicted such a messy, substandard little thing from the house had it been spotted there. And for some reason, this very thought compelled the boy to get up and read it.

So he did.

Draco got to his feet and snatched it into the open, smoothing it out with his fingers to read the scrawl-like handwriting upon it.

The all too familiar scrawl-like handwriting.

Draco's eyes widened and he keeled over slightly, as though some impudent fool had had the cheek to throw a punch at his stomach. And, had he had a heart big enough to take notice of, Draco was pretty sure that his would have probably stopped dead at that very moment.

_To Ferret-face Malfoy_

The incredibly awful penmanship, the disgustingly _unfunny_ nickname, the downright shoddy stationary, the sporadic ink stains…

The Slytherin swallowed. And hard.

Weasley. This had been from Weasley.

That was all the incentive he needed to look inside.

He spared not a thought as he ripped the already tatty envelope open, almost slicing his finger clean off in the process with a massive paper cut, a flat, rectangular object falling from it to the ground in his haste.

But Draco didn't fucking care at that moment.

He wouldn't have cared if it suddenly transformed its inconsequential little self into Lord Voldemort and tried to hex his magnificent head off. Draco snuck his fingers deftly into the slit of the envelope, pulling out the ragged – and incredibly short – piece of parchment that resided within it. Half a foot long at the very most. Almost tearing the folded letter out in his infamous lack of patience, Draco then pulled it close to his face, the scent of dust, ink, and a pleasant, forgotten smell permeated on the paper as he doggedly, quite dizzily, devoured the words before him.

_Doesn't exist, eh Malfoy?_

_Merry Christmas_

_Weasley_

He read it once. He read it again. He had read the note so many times that it was beginning to get ludicrous. Draco turned the parchment over, looking for something else, his astute eyes scanning over every crease, every inch on the thing, willing the splodges of ink to stretch and transform themselves into sentences. But there was nothing else to see. That was it. And it made absolutely no sense.

After weeks of waiting for any type of sign, that was it. That was fucking well it.

It was enough to enrage anyone. A mild mannered person, a gentle, compassionate person, a person who had never lost their temper in their life…

So it sure as fucking hell pissed Draco Malfoy off.

He felt like a human bludger. It was as though he were being restrained in a harness, absolutely shaking to smash someone right in the face and pound their nose flat until a crunch of bones could be heard and their screams reverberated in his ears.

In other words, he was not particularly pleased.

Somehow forcing himself not to scrunch up the letter in his shaking fist, he lifted his head and audibly snarled into the room. He then stepped forward to commence in the traditional act of 'smashing one's room when one was fucked off something chronic'. However, he stopped in his tracks.

There was something under his shoe other than the dusty floor. Something he could feel under his heel. Annoyed, Draco looked down, mind set on hexing whatever it was into dust. But he soon changed his mind when he saw what exactly it was.

It was the object that had fallen from Weasley's envelope.

Draco slowly removed his shoe from it, the imprint of the shoe designer stamped upon the thing in dust. But, even with that, it was hardly difficult to realise what it was.

It was a Wizard's card.

A face down and rather dirty Wizard's card but a Wizard's card nonetheless. Utterly baffled, the boy reached down to pick it up before curiously turning it over.

**_Henricus Cornelius Agrippa_**

_1486-1603_

_'Infamous for his influential work on _De occulta philosophia libri tres_, Agrippa is best known for his gift of combining magic, astrology, Kabbalah, theurgy, medicine and the occult properties of plants, rocks, and metals for Potions. He is seen as characterising the main line of intellectual development from Nicholas of Cusa to Sebastian Franck and has been awarded the Order of Merlin: First Class for his outstanding contribution to experimental research._

Draco felt his hands perspiring, a memory suddenly hitting him like a bolt of lightening, a conversation between him and Weasley that he had long forgotten...

_"… your favourite sweets were Fizzing Whizbees until you figured, like any old dolt, that they had foul things inside them. Now you like chocolate frogs and are still stupidly looking for the Agrippa card, which everybody knows doesn't actually exist..."_

Draco looked back down at the picture of one Henricus Cornelius Agrippa again. The brown, aged capture of the man, startled to see someone looking down at him, hiked up his robes and darted out of the frame. Every so often, Draco could just about make out the top of a bald head apprehensively peeking up at him from the ornately illustrated border of the card, checking to see if he had gone yet. The man was, quite obviously, petrified.

Draco swallowed down an expletive before it forcefully regurgitated itself back up again.

Holy fucking Christ. He had found the one Agrippa card ever made. Or, to be more apt, Weasley had found the one Agrippa card ever made and given it to him. A card so rare that the actual wizard within it wasn't used to being gawped at by stupid, greasy-fingered children and was pansy-like and most ridiculous in his terror – especially since it was Draco's wonderful face he was scared of looking at.

Draco would have poked at him viciously with his finger for such an insult but was too busy dropping down heavily into a chair instead, the legs rattling with the strong movement and his feeling very numb indeed.

Fuck it, Draco absolutely _hated _feeling numb, especially since he had perfected being indifferent so damned much.

This card was worth thousands. Thousands. Maybe even more, being one of a kind. It was a bloody legend in its own right. Draco could have bought himself everything he used to be able to afford before he and Lucius parted their ways. With that amount of money he could have got himself the latest broom, the best pedicure set money could buy, a pet dragon if it took his fancy… all that money…

And Weasley – a _poor _Weasley – had given it to him.

Draco just couldn't get his head around it. It's not like he and Weasley were… well, _anything_, really. Their relationship was practically non-existent. They'd fought, they'd snogged, they'd fought some more, they'd shagged, they'd commenced in even more fighting and then Weasley had gone and got himself killed. That was it. That was all there was to them. No love, nothing. Well, Weasley, being the sappy Gryffindor he was, was probably red head over heals for Draco – and why wouldn't he be? – but the Slytherin's own feet were quite firmly on the ground.

Love, simply put, did not exist for Draco Malfoy. It was a stupid, made-up concept invented by advertising companies to sell Valentines Day and give ugly dwarves a job once a year and Draco would be damned before someone like Weasley tried to muscle his stupid way into his affections like that. No. All that Draco believed in, as crass and crude as it sounded, was sex. And Weasley was the best sex he'd ever had. And, being a Slytherin, he wasn't about to give that up for anyone.

With a sudden determined sniff, as though everything Draco had ever worried about in his life had just been quashed, the boy over-confidently reached over and snatched one of Lucius's many letters from the plush sofa seat.

He was untouchable. He was not in fucking love with anyone. He could deal with anything. He was a bloody prodigy. The finest person ever created. He was above feeling anything for anyone. And that included his father.

And so Draco opened the letter, his index finger running underneath the animated green seal of the Malfoys, a wax snake hissing at him all the while and attempting the occasional bite at his fingertips. Draco scowled darkly at it, flicking at the head sharply with a fingernail. He then pulled a single, heavy-sheeted piece of parchment out and began to confidently, superciliously, read.

_Dear Son._

Draco paused.

He must have been hallucinating. There was no fucking way in Voldemort's hell that Lucius would be so… well, civil. Polite. Downright friendly. After all, it was usually a curt 'boy' as a welcome but this… Just that 'dear'…

Draco clenched his jaw tightly, staring at the unfamiliar word.

… it spoke volumes. It showed affection. An affection Draco thought he had lost from his father long ago. An affection he had always craved his entire life. An affection that he hadn't even realised he had missed until that very moment...

He felt an inappropriate flutter from the region of his stomach. He brushed it aside as he continued to read;

_I trust you are well? One has to presume you are, although you have yet to answer any of my many owls. Have you lost the manners I taught you, boy? Or has that muggle-loving fool Dumbledore brainwashed my heir? If this is the unfortunate case, I must say I am disappointed, Draco. I assumed you were a boy with a relatively able mind and that maybe you had inherited something from your father other than his looks. Clearly, I was presumptuous and over-estimated your talents._

_For, you **are **a talented boy, Draco._

_Ever since your childhood, you showed promise. And it is this promise that I trust will make you come to your senses, quit this ridiculous charade and return home to your family. Do not be a fool, boy. You should know better than most that Dumbledore and his order will soon be destroyed. Do not choose the losing side. Come back home, Draco._

_Awaiting your reply,_

_Your Loving Father_

Draco's hands were not trembling. And, if anyone had the fucking gall to overrule this fact, those 'shaky' pale hands would find their way around their throat.

This had to be a trick. It must have been. It… it was most probably just Lucius Malfoy's newest plan. A brand new approach and new demeanour to trap Draco into a false sense of security. Yes, that was it. That had to be it. It was obvious, really. That stupid bastard, did he really think Draco was that gullible? Why else would Lucius write? He didn't care about him. He wouldn't have cared if he was dead. Unless…

_… do not choose the losing side… return home to your family... your loving father…_

No, it was clearly a ruse. A ploy. A transparently deceptive shift of tack that was kindness. Draco, with his perfect vision (he'd like to think) could see it a mile off. And there was no way he was going to fall for it. Like hell he would. He was smart, intelligent, clever, sharp… and other words for smart, intelligent, clever and sharp. A genius. A prodigy. A stud. He could spot a trick with his eyes closed. Hell, he was a _Slytherin_. He could play a trick with his eyes closed and no one would be the wiser. No way was he hooked into Lucius's obvious, sad little game. Nope. Not even a little bit.

_Your Loving Father…_

Draco turned the envelope over once again. The familiar Malfoy crest shone back at him; two serpents entwining themselves around the curves of the M almost sensuously. It felt like only yesterday that he had used this very crest himself to seal his own letters, proudly stamping his melted green mark onto every envelope he had ever sent.

Draco stared at it hard.

The pair of snakes blinked back in a rather poor imitation of innocence. Draco recognised it well. It was usually the face he reserved for when he was in major trouble with his father. It appeared that all Malfoys, even their serpentine mascots, had it down perfectly.

An unexpected hoot of an owl suddenly sounded, successfully removing Draco's thoughts from Malfoys, seals and mascots who couldn't act.

As though he had practised this moment his entire life, Draco jumped to his feet, lifted his arm threateningly and pointed his wand directly at the bird by the front doorway, as if it were a death eater in a really good disguise. He then looked at it properly. Bad temperedly, as though severely let down that he couldn't blow it up, Draco lowered his wand back to his side.

"What the bloody hell do you want?" he snapped rather sulkily, storming his way over to the little bird as it enthusiastically flapped its way towards him. It would have been beaming ecstatically at him, had it had teeth and Draco personally believed he would be pecking its eyes out, had he had a beak. Fortunately, neither had the other's attributes, so no violence occurred. "And how did you get in here?" Draco continued to demand, wand being tucked irritably into his trousers. "Who said you could leave the Owlery? Did I say you could leave the Owlery? Did I once even _hint _that you could leave the Owlery? Oh, you wait until I tell Professor Snape, then you'll be in trouble. Do you know what they do to unruly owls that fly illegally about the school grounds? Do you?"

Pig hooted. Draco took this as an incentive to continue, snarling up at the small creature.

"I'll tell you what they do. They give them to the house elves in the kitchens who skin them alive before chopping their heads off. Then, they bake them into pies. _Pig_ Pies. Pork pies, if you will."

The owl hooted happily and continued to follow, barely hovering in the air as his little wings eagerly fluttered at his sides. He then, seeming to have had enough with flying, landed with a bounce and a soft 'flump' of a sound on Draco's shoulder. He attacked the pale ear before him in would-be affection.

Draco was not entirely endeared by this.

"Argh! Get the fuck off me, you stupid, stupid bird!" the blond boy almost screeched, throwing his arms over his head in a rather useless attempt to shake off the eager nibbler. "What is your – ow! – problem!? Stop bloody – ow! – pecking me! Do you know how – ow! – attractive that ear is!? Oooh, are you going to get it! I'll put a hex on you if you're not careful! _I mean it_ – quit it! Quit it before I…!"

And then Draco felt a graze of paper against his flailing palms. A rolled up piece of parchment was attached primly in the owl's grasp. Heaven knows how Draco hadn't noticed it until now. It was probably as big as the owl itself.

Draco lowered his arms.

What the fuck was this, letter day?

This was so fucking typical. You don't get one for months and suddenly dozens show up at once.

He snapped his head to the side to glare at Pig, still on his shoulder and cheerfully gazing back at him.

"Who the sod sent that?" Draco demanded, prodding a sharp finger at the message. Pig, almost falling backwards as he did, hooted twice into Draco's ear before cooing and curling up against the curve of his neck. Draco twitched his shoulder irritably and the miniature bird, who was forced hurtling into the air, was caught in Draco's seeker fist. The boy snarled. "Do I look like a fucking owl rest home? Who sent it?!" Pig responded by energetically hooting some more. Draco conceded defeat, like he did most everything, by swearing. "Oh, just give it here then, you stupid flying rodent. And fucking hold still. And don't you try to peck me!"

Pig appeared to be holding great restraint in his little feathery body by keeping very still in Draco's hand, almost shaking with anticipation as he was relieved of his package. With a snort, Draco chucked the bird over his shoulder as someone might treat a balled up, badly written draft of a Potions essay (he wouldn't know, he'd never written anything – let alone a Potions essay – badly) and proceeded to unrolling his letter.

A soft rustle behind him told Draco that Pig had landed in his heap of envelopes and a further muffled hoot told him that the owl was alive. Shame.

Draco peered at the tiny, neat print on the parchment before him, the space between each line looking as though it had been measured precisely. Then, on looking at the name signed at the bottom, Draco grunted and supposed that each line most probably had been.

Granger. That bitch who was so anally retentive that Filch could use her enormous bottom to suck up dirt from the halls. This had better be an apology.

_Malfoy, are you alright? What happened? Were you taken to Dumbledore? Did you get in dreadful trouble? Were you really expelled this time? Did… did you mention me? Oh I told you to get under the cloak, why didn't you listen?! Filch would never have spotted you! If you weren't so proud, none of this would have happened! It's all such an awful mess!_

_Oh, but I suppose yelling won't do either of us any good now._

_Anyway, I found your invisibility cloak. Almost immediately after you left with Filch, as a matter of fact. I also happened to find some really useful facts in that Second edition of 'The Quest for Immortality'. It's such an interesting read. All those different, far-fetched methods and rituals ancient wizards used to perform to achieve eternal life are ever so fascinating. Anyway, I really do feel we need to talk about some of the helpful things I've found out so I've sent Crookshanks to you with the cloak (Pig was too little) so you can use it to meet me outside Gryffindor tower._

_And don't you even try to do anything horrid to my cat, Malfoy. I'll know._

_Write back so I know when to meet you._

_Hermione._

Draco lowered the letter and scowled. Not a single fucking 'sorry'. And not even that, the human furball had the audacity to tell him where to meet her. As if he'd go through the trouble of visiting her. As if he weren't the one calling the shots. As if he wouldn't kill her for letting her cat put its disgusting saliva covered fangs anywhere near his cloak.

Muttering something under his breath that included the words 'mudbloods', 'Cruciatus', 'agony', 'genocide' and 'nice', Draco stormed over to his coffee table, swiped up the quill on it from its inkwell and hastily, sneeringly wrote the words;

_I'm coming right now, mudblood. If you're even a fucking second late meeting me or my cloak comes back with a hint of dirt on it, I'll have a nice cat-skin hat on my head and a lucky kneazle's head hanging from my belt the next time we meet._

_Malfoy_

* * *

"That wasn't funny."

Granger's intention was to glare at him but since Draco was under the cloak – which had been delivered by the flat-faced ginger cat in surprisingly good condition – she ended up staring at a random part of the wall in the Gryffindor tower corridor instead, which made it all the more comical. The girl temporarily halted from glowering as she bent down and scooped up the haughty, deformed-looking cat that had been swishing its bottlebrush tail arrogantly as it walked in front of Draco like a guide. Draco resisted the urge to kick at it as it purred its way contentedly into Granger's arms before shrewdly checking the empty hallway out for any stragglers with its bright yellow eyes.

Draco did the same with his grey ones, although far more resentfully. The same torches were placed afire in the same stone walls, the same ugly Gryffindor tapestries hung with the same arrogance they had always been hung and the same vile stench of happiness, courage and virtue clung to the air like a sticky fog.

God, he was so fucking sick of this place.

Of standing outside the hideous portrait of that obese woman with absolutely no fashion sense and wondering why the hell he was always here.

The woman in question was dozing in her seat, her many chins falling onto her huge, heaving bosom, occasional and surprisingly crude sleep muttering coming from her mouth.

Draco inclined his head by the merest of fractions so a silver brow and a wisp of platinum hair seemed to materialise out of thin air. The brow was a sharp, angry gash of an L-shape and was facing directly at Granger. Draco curled his invisible bottom lip.

"Not funny?" he said sneeringly. "Oh please. I'm always funny. It's a talent. Now let me the fuck in. The sooner we discuss this, the sooner I can leave and the sooner I can leave, the sooner I can douse myself in Bleach Draught and sanitise myself clean of you. So give your ugly portrait your idiot password and stop wasting my time, mudblood."

Both Granger and her kneazle glared daggers at him but eventually, after a good while of staring, turned to the Fat Lady. After her third, rather loud attempt of, "Excuse me!", the Fat Lady jerked up with a start, letting out a loud snore-like noise and almost toppling off her stool. She'd barely heard Granger whisper the password ("Gingersnap!") before waving a bleary hand and falling asleep again, the portrait creaking open.

Feeling petty, Draco whipped off his cloak in an over exaggerated way and shoved his way passed the girl, pushing her to the side so her shoulder bumped against a wall, making sure he could clamber through the portrait hole first. Crookshanks spat wildly from behind him and Draco looked over his shoulder to smirk viciously at the cat as he easily made his way into the kitschy common room. However, the boy had stopped dead when he turned back around and saw who else seemed to be present. Draco stopped, narrowing his pale eyes before turning back to Granger so fast he felt he had just cracked his neck in two.

The common room was supposed to be empty at this time.

That little bitch.

"What the fuck are they doing here, Granger?" he spat in demand, glaring at the two additional occupants with utmost loathing and jerking a thumb at them so there could be no mistake as to who he was so unhappy to see. Neville Longbottom, who was looking nervous enough being up after hours as it was, and Ginny Weasley, who was sitting calmly on a chair by the roaring fire, turned to look right back at him.

Draco let out a particularly nasty snarl, automatically leaving Longbottom white-faced and trembling and the Weasley girl rolling her eyes. Luckily for the redhead, Granger stepped forward before Draco could whip out his wand, shove it up her nose and hex her until her brains came oozing out of her ears. Hermione Granger sighed and Draco found satisfaction to see her rubbing at the shoulder he had thumped passed.

"Malfoy, just calm down. We can trust them."

"How much have you fucking told them?" he hissed back heatedly as he followed her around the room with his eyes. She made her way in front of him and Draco made a big show of stepping back and wiping his robes clean. Granger huffed at him and ignored this.

"I already told you, we can trust them. They won't tell anyone…"

"I don't trust anyone, Granger."

"We need their help..."

"I don't need anyone, Granger."

At this, Ginny Weasley quickly got to her feet. She, like Granger and Potter and Weasley, and pretty much everyone Draco had ever met in his life, glared at him.

The slag.

Draco crossed his arms and eyed her up and down insolently, looking severely unimpressed, even more so once he got to her chest.

How most men found two mounds of excess fat the least bit arousing to look at was beyond him. Misplaced bulges of flab about one's body? Oh yes. Draco was _so_ turned on. Snorting at his findings, he lifted his eyes up to the redhead's face. It was angry and her eyes were ablaze.

"We're involved, Malfoy, whether you like it or not," the girl Weasley sniped, in an incredibly annoying voice. Her hoity-toity, matter-of-fact manner made Draco simply tingle to hurt her, as though the magic to zap her out of this world would spring out of his very fingertips. Somehow though, Draco held it in, slowly sauntering forwards instead as his heels thudded dully against the stone. He then eyed her beadily for a very long time, their faces almost nose to nose. Ginny Weasley stared back, pursing her lips, equalling his severity. Her ears had gone red and her freckles were fading under flushed skin. An underlying feeling inside Draco suddenly felt familiarity.

The freckles, the hair, the temper… she had it all.

Nowhere near in the same league as her brother.

Lifting his frame straight so he was a good three inches taller than her, Draco blinked lazily, mockingly at her. His thin lips spread to a wide, patronising smile.

"Fuck off, little girl Weasley, this doesn't concern you. So run along and do something useful, like topping yourself. The grownups are talking." Draco then turned to Neville before she could answer back, his gleaming look of malice still affixed to his sharp face. "Yes, Longbottom, I said 'grownups'. Not useless, pitiable little fat boys who have unhealthy infatuations with toads and absolutely no talent. So go do… whatever the fuck it is you do besides fall over your own feet, eat everything in sight and blow up simple potions. Get it? Got it? Good."

But neither of them moved, not when Draco put on his most dangerous look. And not when he did it again. Not even Longbottom, although he was rather pink in the face from embarrassment and didn't seem particularly eager to catch Draco's eye. Granger dropped Crookshanks to the floor so a ginger blur darted across the room and rested under a chair, his eyes glowing, as she moved to sit down. She then looked up to give Draco a look of pure disapproval and made a 'tsk' type of noise that she had obviously picked up from McGonagall.

Ginny Weasley, however, kept on standing and gave Draco a scathing look.

"We're not leaving, Malfoy," she hissed in pure resolve. "And don't you dare say it's none of my business. Ron… he…" her voice broke for a minute before she regained her composure. She then glared at Draco, as though daring him to laugh derisively in her face. For one of the few times in his life, though, Draco couldn't physically say anything back. Which only made him pissier. Exhaling hard through her nose, Ginny Weasley continued, her eyes red-rimmed, angry and shiny. "If anyone has the right to be involved, it's me. Ron was_ my_ brother, Malfoy. I care about him more than someone like you could ever know. So tell us, what's this plan of yours? Hermione says it sounds impossible."

"Oh please, like I'm going to even discuss this with a fucking Weasley," Draco spat out scornfully, flicking his fingers in a carelessly blasé and rude fashion in her face. "Piss off."

Ginny Weasley frowned darkly at him. She then angrily flicked her head so her long ponytail flew out of her face before making a meal out of placing her hands on her hips.

"Well, considering you were low enough to fall for a 'fucking Weasley', Malfoy, I don't really see your point."

Oh no she fucking didn't.

Draco, who wasn't exactly known well for withstanding much, was not withstanding this. Not for one more second. So he jumped forward, practically snarling like a rabid chimera and everyone but Ginny Weasley, who he was glaring at and whose feet he was almost trampling on, looked perturbed.

"How about I transfigure your insides into spears while they're still inside you, huh, Weasley? Will you get the fucking point then?" Then, realising the utter lack of quality of what he had just said and how stupid it sounded, decided to rally on before someone questioned him about it, "And for your information, you presumptuous little bitch, your brother was the one who fell for me – not, NEVER, the other way around. Do you really think a worthless, lanky little poor boy could ever secure my affections? That, for a single second, I'd give a shit about his skinny-arsed self? But wait, I'm not even going to _try_ and explain myself to an unimportant, dim-witted cow like you. You fucking Weasleys, polluting the planet. You're wastes of fucking space, the whole lot of you."

And with a sniff, completely and utterly agreeing with himself and almost surprised with how much sense he made, Draco crossed his arms and waited to hear words of apology.

But he didn't get them.

The redhead practically snorted in his face as she shook her head, one hand still on her hip and acting with the air of a person who had just listened to the most boring speech they had ever had the misfortune to endure.

"Whatever, Malfoy. Lie to yourself all you want, I don't care. But I'm not in the mood to watch you delude yourself. I'm only here for Ron. So while we're still young…"

"I am not telling you a damn thing," Draco said in a soft, dangerous type of voice that he didn't recognise on his tongue. If he were not a Malfoy, it would have scared him. "Not a single fucking thing. In fact, I don't want to speak to you at all, so, if you'll excuse me..."

And so Draco, surprising himself yet again, turned on his heel and made his way to the portrait hole. And he had got himself pretty close to it too when,

"Malfoy, wait!"

There was a shriek and a mass of frizzy hair came bounding towards him, grasping his arm. Draco immediately pulled out of Hermione Granger's grasp fiercely, almost pushing her to the ground with a combination of haste and revulsion.

"Don't you fucking touch me, mudblood. What have I told your filthy groping self about physical contact?"

But Granger was still tugging. The depraved little whore wanted him so much that it really was vile. Draco yipped, trying to slap and bite her hands away from his lapel as she continued her desperate assault. Did the ugly rodent not know how much a robe like this cost? How many diseases she probably carried? How many wrinkles Draco would now have to iron out of his clothes?!

"Malfoy, we need to work together!" Granger almost pleaded in anguish.

"This coming from Miss I-can't-do-this?" Draco yelped, trying his hardest to elbow her in the face. "Piss off! I work better on my own. I don't know what I was thinking, enlisting your tedious help. Get the hell off me, you flea-infested mare!"

"Malfoy, I'm involved now! You can't just walk away…!"

At these words, Draco finally managed to grasp a good hold of a shoulder and pushed her away from him with all his might, Granger's back thumping flat against the opposite wall. Ginny Weasley jumped forward and Neville Longbottom got hastily, rather awkwardly to his clumsy feet but Granger, her gaze still on Draco, held out an arm, stopping them from approaching. Weasley looked red faced and angry. Longbottom looked pale but determined. And Granger looked teary-eyed and fearful. Panting, Draco automatically found himself smiling cruelly back at just her, an awful sneer on his face.

"Can't just walk away?" he hissed spitefully. "Just watch me. I'm gone, Granger. I officially dump you. I suggest you get used to it. With your looks, it's bound to happen to you a great deal in your lifetime."

And with that, he walked out.

And, as he walked his way through the corridors, angrily throwing his cloak over himself and glaring at every suit of armour, every tapestry he passed, he suddenly came to a resolve.

A resolve that made Draco's stomach twist and turn as though it were made of thousands of tiny snakes. And a resolve he knew had to be done.

He silently went back to the Shack, his mind oddly sober and clear and pulled out his bottomless bag. He folded his clothes impeccably, packed up his books, piled up his letters and neatly put them all in. He then buckled up his bag, put a Levitating Charm on it, flew his way out of one of the broken windows and, a few seconds later, touched back down in an empty, somewhat dodgy back street of Hogsmeade. He looked about somewhat shiftily before, with a 'crack!' of a noise, he Disapparated.

But a few seconds later he arrived at a different scene. A rather familiar scene. He walked up the familiar green lawns, his wand held up and keeping his hovering luggage aloft, passed the familiar topiary snakes on either side of the footpath and up the familiar stone steps to the familiar front door.

A familiar house elf opened the door, screamed and then proceeded to shut the door on him. Draco, despite what those bastards at Hogwarts said about his seeker skills, used his strangely adept reflexes and jammed his foot into the door before it could be closed.

"Let me the fuck in, Knobbly!" he demanded fiercely.

"Master Draco, Sir! Master Lucius says no! Master Lucius says you is disowned, sir! Master Lucius says you is not welcome anymore, sir…! Master Lucius says-"

"Move, Knobbly," a cold voice suddenly cut through the air and the hairs on Draco's arms prickled, his heart thumping hard as the house elf hastily stepped aside to admit the newcomer. Dressed in dark green robes and looking as seamlessly unruffled as always, Lucius Malfoy stepped forward. It took all of Draco's self control to not gulp.

"Hullo, father," he said, his voice trying not to shake.

Dammit, it would not shake, not now. Not fucking well _now._

Lucius Malfoy, standing tall, gave his son a rather long, inspecting look before his clever lips quirked to an amused smile and, sweeping to one side so Draco could walk passed him into the house, he nodded and said,

"Welcome back, boy."

* * *


	7. Chapter 6 The Prodigal Son

_A/N: Hello Everyone:D I know, it's been like… a year or two right:) I'm so sorry everyone, I've just been at such odds with this story, uninspired then inspired then uninspired again :P_

_Dedications go to my favourite girlies in the whole world, the original P&P crew, (Jaime, Maria, Dee, Sophie, Maud) and of course, to my Noo :) I also have a huge thank you to give Marta – her wonderful IniD drawings are the main reasons I'm inspired to write again._

_Recap: After a fight with Hermione, Draco has left Hogwarts and has gone back home to Lucius._

_Notes: The very last chapter in INiD is heavily used in this one. A slightly racy chapter :D You'll see why_  
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_

* * *

**  
Chapter Six – The Prodigal Son **

"Malfoy…?"

There was a soft whisper into the back of Draco's damp silver hair as a warm Ron Weasley tenderly pulled Draco Malfoy's back against his chest, kissing his pale neck. Draco slipped his drooping eyelids shut, contentedly and let out a sigh.

"Weasley," he mumbled back tiredly.

There seemed to be a sizeable pause before the redhead continued.

"You okay…?" he asked hesitantly. Draco tried to smirk, although Weasley wouldn't be able to see it anyway.

"I'm in fucking pain. If I didn't enjoy that so much I'd hurt you. Ahhh… Jesus, I'll not be able to walk for a week now and…"

Draco stopped. He then blinked, frowned and lifted up his grey eyes to look around his surroundings, as though suddenly realising that a) he had done this before and b) this wasn't somewhere he was supposed to be anyway.

He knew exactly where he was supposed to be.

He was supposed to be in his bed at Malfoy Manor. He was supposed to be in his lavish, overly-decorated bedroom, the serpents in his tapestries hissing gently and the clock on his mantle ticking irritatingly...

But as Draco looked around, he didn't spot rich tapestries, fancy clocks or the dozen or so posing portraits of himself that smirked, winked at him and flicked their hair at him from all around his room. No, what he saw was a broken window, a musty old rug and a smelly-looking raggedy pair of drapes…

And then he recognised exactly where he was.

Draco narrowed his eyes into slits.

What in fuck's name was he doing in the Shrieking Shack?

However, before he could jump up to his feet and demand a pissy explanation – which would involve a great deal of pouting and foot stomping – he felt a warm blush of skin against his back, a hot cheek on his shoulder and a deep breath ruffling his hair.

Draco shivered, feeling an overwhelming sense of deja vous as he felt a familiar freckled hand resting on his bare, clammy hip.

And all thoughts of complaining flew straight out of his head.

"Malfoy, turn around," Weasley beseeched in a softer voice and Draco, despite trying to convince himself this was some screwed up figment of his imagination, turned around as Weasley asked, however difficult it was to roll around on a garish three-seater couch with an irresistible naked person lying next to you. And once he turned, the blond couldn't help but stare at him, licking his dry lips and feeling incredibly light-headed.

Merlin's Bollocks, he remembered all this. It was like he had stepped into some fucked up sort of pensieve, replaying his memory of the aftermath of his and Weasley's first and only time all those weeks ago.

He remembered openly drooling over the naked Weasley then like he was doing now. He remembered brazenly eying every bit of Weasley, making the redhead glow with embarrassment at being so closely scrutinised. And he remembered Weasley placing his long freckled arms in an awkward position to hide himself as much as he could.

Before he realised he was doing it, Draco reached out to grab his arms to stop him, just as he had done then.

"Don't do that," Draco said faintly, his head hurting as he realised he had done this all before, thought this all before, said this all before. "I like looking at you."

Weasley looked up at him almost coyly. So bashful after sex.

He let out an awkward, slightly sceptical chuckle.

"I'm not exactly a looker, am I?"

Draco rolled his eyes. He remembered rolling his eyes when Weasley said it then and he was going to fucking roll them now. Stupid Weasley, he was a gorgeous arse and he knew it.

"Weasley, shut the fuck up," he snapped, although his hand busied itself by trailing feather light down, the flat of the boy's stomach. He remembered the first time they had done this - his hand hadn't slipped any lower than Weasley's bellybutton then. Smirking, Draco decided to tease fate and purposely slipped it lower, his fingers creeping down dangerously enough to make Weasley groan. "Do you honestly believe a Malfoy would ever allow themselves to bugger a complete minger? We have our standards, after all."

Weasley shifted and let out a gasp.

And Draco was beginning to get dizzy. This part was new.

Letting out a smile, he leaned over and caught Weasley's lips with his, drinking in the little breathy noises the redhead was making, his hand still groping around for its prize. Weasley's hips rose off the couch, his hands clutching at Draco's hair, increasing the pressure of the kiss as Draco increased the pressure of his hand.

"God, I've missed you…" Weasley groaned into Draco's mouth.

Draco just kissed him harder in response, throwing his leg over so he could slowly ease his way on top of the redhead, crawling on top of him so they were perfectly aligned.

"Guh…" Weasley managed almost stupidly, sliding his hands down Draco's lower back so he could increase the friction.

It didn't take either of them very long.

Draco, who tried to hold himself back, tried to get back some semblance of control by repeating the mantra,

_I'm not going to come before Weasley… I am not going to come before a fucking penniless figment of my imagination… _

didn't manage it. Swearing loudly as he climaxed, he slumped over the redhead bonelessly, feeling light headed and sweaty and amazingly good considering what he was covered in. And with a final strangled moan of his own, Ron threw back his head, bit his lip and followed right along.

And it was one hell of a sight.

Not that Draco was making sure to watch or anything. Or fighting to keep his eyes open so he could drink in every detail. And no way was he staring at Weasley like a lovesick puppy/starving man/worshipper/idiot. Because he wasn't, not at fucking all.

And anyway, it wasn't his fault that Weasley looked so delectable when shagged out.

Still tingling in post-coital bliss and far too gone to berate himself for thinking like a romancing queen, Draco wiggled himself into a comfortable position and let out an uncharacteristically contented sigh.

Mmmmm.

Maybe he'd close his eyes for a bit. After being a most excellent lay, Weasley was a most excellent pillow. He made the hideously expensive bedding Narcissa bought from Morgana's feel like a sack of bricks in comparison. And he also had the added bonus of having far more… _accessories_ for Draco to play with than any conventional pillow. And Draco Malfoy always did like a good play…

Unfortunately, Weasley, being a Weasley and the exasperatingly chatty sod he was, decided to open his big mouth and ruin the mood.

"Malfoy?"

Draco popped one eye open, a whisker from being mildly annoyed.

"Yes, Weasley?" he inquired in a tired voice, slightly irritated that he was being disturbed mid-dirty thought. This was normally when Draco did all of his best thinking.

Weasley didn't care about Draco's annoyance though. Ignoring it as he usually did now, he just turned to the blond and stared at him with those big blue eyes of his. He then opened his mouth, looking rather nervous.

"… I, err… reckon we should talk about why you keep having this dream."

Draco, who was still lying complacently on Weasley and resting his cheek on the boy's shoulder, just snorted at that.

"Nothing to talk about there, Weasley, drop it," he drawled in a bored voice, his breath trickling Ron's neck.

Unperturbed, Weasley tried again.

"… Malfoy, it's not healthy…" he said more tentatively this time.

But Draco wasn't biting.

"Oh please," Draco scoffed in genuine disgust, lifting up his head so he could stare Weasley in the eye, "as if I ever wanted to be healthy. And just shut up and stop nagging me already, you're beginning to sound like Mudblood Granger."

"Oi," said Ron sharply, lifting up his head and poking Draco hard in the ribs at that. "Don't call her that."

"Humph," Draco pouted childishly, a second away from having a full-out tantrum as he made a big show of rubbing his sore ribs. "This is my bloody dream and I'll call her what I want, you sodding dead Gryffindor. And why can't you just behave and be a bigot?"

"Why can't _you_ behave and be a decent human being?" Weasley retorted almost snidely.

Draco just looked at him for a while, as though mulling over the question. He then shrugged.

"I asked first," he eventually responded.

Ron, who was staring at him blankly for a while, finally ended up shaking his head and letting out a grin

"You're a real piece of work, Malfoy. You know that?"

"Yup, I'm a work of art," Draco said smugly, wiggling against Ron so he could get more comfortable and making Ron howl in annoyance as his pale elbow dug into the redhead's hip. "Now tell me how pretty my hair is."

Still rubbing his sore hip, Ron snorted at that.

"Yeah, Malfoy, it's lovely. All sweaty and covered in wank, you should model for Sleekeazys."

"Yes, but it has great body. Just like it's owner and… stop laughing, Weasley."

Because that's exactly what the bastard was doing, his entire body shaking with silent laughter as he grinned broadly. Draco, his expression sour, found his fingers itching to punch him.

"Yeah, Malfoy. Whatever you say," Weasley said before tenderly leaning forward to kiss Draco on the nose. Draco blinked at that almost dumbly and was just about to open his mouth to tell Weasley they weren't some lovey-dovey couple when Weasley dazzled him with a smile that rendered him speechless. "Now wake up, you prat," the redhead said, his expression suddenly turning serious. "Your breakfast's ready."

And with that, Draco woke up with a start.

Sitting up with a jolt, his sheets soaking with sweat and sticking to him like a slimy second skin, Draco looked around him frantically. But this was not the Shrieking Shack. And there was no grinning Ron Weasley next to him.

Draco then let out a gulp as his bedroom came swimming into his vision. He'd made it back to Malfoy Manor alright.

And it was right then that he realised how totally fucking screwed he was.

Drawing his knees under his chin, Draco wrapped his arms around his legs. Then pressing his face against the tops of his knees, he briefly thought about suffocating himself.

What the bollocky hell had he been thinking, coming back here? In hexing range of his unstable, homicidal father and his even more unstable, even more homicidal Dark Lord?

"Why so worried, handsome?"

Had he been in a better frame of mind, Draco would have smiled widely at that. Instead, he smirked thinly as he looked up at the painting the voice had come from.

The only person whose company he could stand. The only person whose presence didn't eventually grate on his nerves. A person who was not only a genius but the most stunning specimen of humanity.

"Oh stop, you're embarrassing me," the portrait of Draco drawled in amusement.

Well, who else would it be?

Leaning back against his satin green pillows, Draco cocked his head.

"Been well, boys?" Draco asked his portraits. Because he was addressing more than one. In fact, there were about twelve paintings of him in all, all in ornate silver frames and posing as though their canvases depended on it. And they all looked as happily back at him as he did at them.

"Oh, yes, we've been marvellous," said the Draco portrait that was posing almost wantonly on a broomstick, flicking his hair and blowing a kiss for added effect. "Father recently put up a portrait of the house elves cull of 1897 in the hall and we've all been paying it regular visits."

"We help with the fire," the Draco portrait two rows down replied with relish, this one wearing flashy dress robes and a stylish hat. " We helped spitfire one of Dobby's ancestors yesterday,"

"Oh, good," the real Draco said, but with not as much pleasure as he ordinarily would have. Normally, Draco would be salivating as he imagined the gorey, bloody mess The Cull portrait would display. The dismembered heads, house elves screeching, children laughing…

Unfortunately, the fact Draco was very sure he would be dead quite soon made the thought of the portrait less excitable than usual.

Draco sighed in annoyance.

He fucking hated it when impending gloom hung over his head like this. It made him stop appreciating the finer things in life. Like violent art. And killing inconsequential pests. And imagining how well Ron Weasley looked without clothes on…

"Ugh, Weasley, we hate Weasley."

Draco snapped his head up at the portrait that said that, his eyes narrowed. It'd been so long since he was last here he had forgotten the way his framed counterparts could pick up on his thoughts.

The portrait, which was a fraction away from being indecent as it pictured Draco lounging in nothing but a towel, seemed to want to open its arrogant mouth and carry on insulting Weasley but it soon blinked at the glare its real counterpart was giving him.

"Oh, we're admitting we like Weasley now, are we?" it asked genuinely.

The real Draco glared some more.

"No, we're admitting he's the best shag we've ever had," Draco snapped prissily, damning his cheeks for growing pink with annoyance.

"But isn't he's the only shag we've ever had," the Draco on the broomstick asked almost hesitantly, raising his finger as though sharing a theory.

Draco opened his mouth to say something sharp, evil, and ingenious. Because he was all those things and more. However, before he could get "Shut up" out of his mouth, there was a knock on the door.

"What!" Draco shrieked out irritably, his voice so high that all his paintings winced.

The door creaked open almost tentatively.

"M-master Draco, sir…?" a high pitched voice stammered from knee-height. And Draco's bad mood suddenly disappeared.

"Knobbly," he said, looking like pure evil incarnate as he smirked nastily at the small, grey, potato-headed elf that entered the room. "Missed me?"

Knobbly the elf gulped, cowered with fear and widened his huge, watery blue eyes, especially as Draco's last visit (which involved hot pokers) sprung to his little mind. And the dozen or so pictures of Draco, who were all wearing devious, leering expressions and smirking down at Knobbly almost hungrily, didn't exactly help ease his fright either.

Somehow, though, the elf didn't pass out. In fact, he went one better by shakily opening his mouth and managing to – albeit stammeringly – relay the message he was sent to deliver.

"M-master Lucius…." he began squeakily. "Master Lucius says… says breakfast is ready, Master Draco. Ma… Master Lucius wishes to see Master Draco in ten minutes, sir. Master Lucius sent Knobbly to take Master Draco down."

The smirk that was comfortably on Draco's face disappeared in a flash.

Lucius wanted to see him in ten minutes.

And just that one thought had Draco Malfoy's face falling, his cheeks growing pale and his heart dropping to his stomach.

Draco then turned to his portraits. He didn't know what exactly he was expecting from them, perhaps some hint of support or advice to make him feel better. After all, they were all him. They were bound to be fabulous in his time of need.

Unfortunately, the twelve cowering figures that all cried out,

"We're a dead man," in unison really weren't much help to Draco's nerves at all.

Draco Malfoy always knew his father wasn't a nice man.

Hell, anyone with half a brain knew Lucius Malfoy was an evil prick. The man made dogs howl when he was in the vicinity, babies cry just looking at him and the help empty their bladders with one, steely grey-eyed look.

Lucius Malfoy was a complete and utter bastard. And Draco, more than most, knew that all too well.

After all, he was the one dragged up by him. When Lucius was around, which he thankfully wasn't during the majority of Draco's childhood, he was trying to teach Draco etiquette, and dark spells and would rap him hard on the knuckles for every mistake he made. And when Draco was older, a cruciatus from time to time wasn't completely unheard of either. Because it insured Draco would never repeat the mistakes he made again. And he didn't.

Yes, Lucius Malfoy was a sadist.

Which is why Draco had to practically scrape his jaw off the ground when, on reaching the breakfast table, his father rose from his seat and enveloped him in an embrace so tender Draco didn't know what to do with himself.

His arms flopped uselessly at his sides and his head lolled to one side as his father's arms tightened around him. And all that went through his mind was that this must be the Death Eaters' new form of torture. So, closing shut his eyes, Draco held his breath and waited for Lucius to eventually tighten his arms and crack Draco's ribs into two.

However, he didn't.

Instead, Lucius moved away gently, smiled at his son almost paternally and left Draco so confused his mouth was left hanging permanently open.

"Close your mouth, boy, or you'll catch flies," Lucius eventually drawled, but he was smirking slightly as he said it.

And Draco's mouth only fell open wider.

"You just hugged me," Draco said, stunned.

Lucius raised a perfectly thin brow, his robes crisp and immaculate.

"Indeed I did," he concurred.

Draco just continued to stare, his mouth flapping like a fish out of water. It wasn't the most attractive look on him.

"… I don't think you've ever done that," Draco finally managed to get out.

Lucius waved a hand nonchalantly, as though it was a trivial matter.

"I'm sure I've done it once before. Unintentionally, of course, but no matter… I'm glad to see you, Draco. Now sit, eat, we have a lot to discuss."

Still in a bit of a daze, Draco did as his father asked and sat himself down on the grand mahogany dining table, which was still as exceptionally long and exquisite as Draco remembered, with it's serpentine carvings and emerald stones.

And as Draco looked around the familiar furnishings around him he could only think one thing;

Agrippa's arse, he hated this place. With it's overly grand décor, and pretentious tapestries and the sarky gargoyles statues in the walls that always made smart comments about Draco's outfits.

And he sodding hated this table. It brought back memories of dinner parties, silent family dinners and his parents sneering at each other over a meal, their hisses echoing around the huge room so Draco could hear exactly what they were saying from his side of the table.

And then it hit him what was missing.

"Where's mother?" Draco asked.

"On a cruise with the Notts," Lucius said without a beat, not even bestowing his son with a look from his side of the huge table as he idly looked through the post Knobbly had just bought him on a silver tray.

Draco wrinkled his brow. Something about all this was very off.

"But Mother hates cruises," he persisted suspiciously. He then paused and added as an afterthought, "And she hates the Notts, too."

"Well, then I'm sure it'll be a short trip," said Lucius shortly, waving a hand. "Now have some pumpkin juice."

So Draco did. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have done that. And he ordinarily wouldn't have because he was the most paranoid person on earth. But the hug had thrown him, and the smile and the affection… they had all thrown him.

They had all thrown him enough to make him drink something without even questioning what was in it. And unfortunately for him, he only questioned the ingredients of the drink when he felt the taste of magic flowing down his throat.

And all Draco wanted to do was swear at himself for letting his guard down.

He knew Veritaserum when he drank it. He was so hung.

"Enjoy the juice, Draco?"

"No, you fucking wanker, it's Veritaserum!"

Draco then blinked. This stuff worked fast.

"Tsk, tsk, language, Draco," said Lucius, although he looked incredibly amused by the speech, lifting his own glass of pumpkin juice and taking a regal sip. "One would think you were hiding things from me."

"Of course, I'm hiding things from you, you prick!" Draco spat out before he could even think of stopping himself. Then realising what he had just said, he slapped a hand over his mouth in mortification and jumped to his feet. He had to get out of here, fast, before he said anything else he regretted.

Unfortunately for Draco, before he could even move his feet to make a run for it, thin rope-like cords whipped out from out of nowhere and wrapped themselves around his arms, pulling him violently back down onto his chair and cutting into him deep enough to make him bleed.

Swearing loudly, Draco struggled, and somewhere amidst the pain and the potion fogging up his brain, he hoped these cuts wouldn't leave lasting scars.

"The more you struggle, the more they'll slice into you, boy," Lucius said airily, briefly eying his cuticles as he elegantly rose to his feet. He then turned to the elf that was still carrying the silver tray of read mail. "Knobbly, you're excused. And if you hear any screams coming from the room, don't bother coming in. You've dusting to do, understand?"

Nodding and bowing emphatically at his master's words, little Knobbly gulped and ran as fast as he could towards the door, but not before sparing a look at Draco. He then slowly smiled at Draco's predicament, his small, unevenly crooked teeth on display as everything Draco had ever done to him came flooding to his mind. This contentment, however, only lasted a few seconds as Knobbly soon squeaked and bolted out the door as Draco screamed "I'll kill you, you little shit! I'll kill you!" after him.

Looking up at the elaborately painted ceiling in slight exasperation, Lucius Malfoy just sighed at the sight,

"For Circe's sake, Draco, must you be so uncouth?" he inquired irritably.

"No, I just like it," Draco replied back promptly.

Lucius looked at his son for a while before eventually smirking at that.

"I must remind myself to thank Severus for creating such a potent potion," he said, sounding genuinely appreciative before he stepped forward, his eyes hard. "Now tell me why you're back."

"I need a book on the Dark Arts," Draco heard himself say, wanting to smack himself in the head for his own treachery.

Lucius, whose towering frame was hovering over his son, raised an eyebrow at that.

"Indeed," he said softly, his grey eyes curious as he leaned his face closer to Draco's. "And pray tell, boy, which book are you searching so determinedly for?"

"_The Quest for Immortality_," Draco said without the slightest pause, the words tumbling out like water from a leaky faucet. Draco then squeezed shut his eyes in regret. Fuck, he hated Veritaserum. He hated it to hell.

Lucius, evidently, didn't. He let out a thin, snake-like smile, as though he had expected those words all along before straightening up to his full height again.

"This is for Potter, isn't it?"

Draco snapped his head up so fast at his father he heard something crack. Loudly. And painfully, too. But not even a broken, deformed neck could stop him from screaming out,

"Potter! I fucking hate Potter, I'm glad he's dead, GLAD!"

Draco then fell silent and blinked at himself. Wow. He never quite realised he hated Scarhead quite so much.

Lucius looked surprised as well, his pale eyebrows rising into his hairline. However, although he looked mildly appeased with his son's answer, uncouth as it was, distrust was still all over his aristocratic features.

"I heard you and Potter were in cahoots," Lucius said suspiciously, his head cocked slightly to the left, as though he were making a challenge. "Did you not spend nights in the Gryffindor dormitory with him when you could have been in that tacky little Shack of yours?"

Draco found himself feeling slightly wounded. No one was allowed to call the shack 'tacky' but himself. It was his right as tenant. And fuck, he knew his father had people to spy on him but he never knew the bastard was so thorough with keeping tabs on him. And as for thinking he was sleeping with Potter… Draco scoffed loudly at the idea.

"Please, I was too busy trying to shag Weasley to look twice at Potter. And for your information, I did manage to shag Weasley and I came twice, thank you very much."

Draco then groaned and dropped himself headfirst into the table, banging his forehead repeatedly on the wooden surface. He was never drinking pumpkin juice again.

Lucius, whose eyes widened slightly with the admission, watched the show with some amusement.

"So you _are_ a homosexual?"

"Well doh," was Draco's muffled reply, his face still squished on the table.

"And you weren't sent here as a spy for Dumbledore?"

"Oh please," Draco grumbled as he lifted his head, his forehead slightly red from where he had been bashing at it. "As if I'd work for that senile old codger. Old Dumble-_bore _tried to get me spy but he's an idiot for thinking I'd do anything without getting something in return and… what?"

Because Lucius's eyes were suddenly glimmering at his son and his smile looked deadly.

He then opened his delicate, smirking mouth and said,

"Tell me, boy, what's that book worth to you?"

Uh-oh. Draco didn't like the sound of this. He tried to swallow the gulp that was rising up his throat but it only made his voice wound weak and pitiful when he finally spoke.

"Why?" he squeaked.

"Because you're my son, Draco," Lucius said, his sneer wide and predatory. "And as my son, you've inherited my policy for never doing something for nothing." Then before Draco could realise what his father was talking about, Draco felt a cold finger lifting up the sleeve of his robe and caress almost threateningly at his pale, flawless forearm. Lucius then smiled thinly and Draco felt his arm tingling unpleasantly. "I'd say you're rather bare here, wouldn't you, Draco?"

Draco, who had looked down at the ugly black mark that was staring at him from his father's arm, looked up at his Lucius again.

"No," Draco said honestly, the Veritaserum still coursing through his veins as he locked eyes with his father. "But if it gets me that book, I'll do it anyway."

* * *

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